


if the stars align

by twistedroses



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death, The Musketeers AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-12-18 02:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11864361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedroses/pseuds/twistedroses
Summary: Danger lurks around every corner in the French court and as a Musketeer in service of the royal family, Killian’s duty is to protect them from any and all threats. As his relationship with Queen Emma develops into something more than just friendship, threats against the queen escalate and place everything they both hold dear into jeopardy.





	1. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here, my 2017 CSBB! This story has consumed my life for the last several months, I'm so excited to share it with you, and I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> This story is based on the BBC show The Musketeers, not the original work or other adaptations. You don't have to know the show to understand the story! 
> 
> The title comes from the song "Be Together" by Major Lazer.

It’s the day Killian Jones has been dreading for weeks.

On any other occasion, he would be happy to spend the day in the French woods, under the canopy of birch trees with their quivering leaves and swaying branches, the sun filtering through the canopy and casting a soft, pleasant light all around. Though its only early April, the air is heavy and hot as if it were summer itself, and under the trees it’s not as sweltering as it was back in the palace gardens.

So Killian should be _thrilled_ that his duty today is to escort the royals and several courtiers into the shaded woods for a hunt, a day where he’ll probably spend most of his time crouched in silence as the king and court wait for an ever elusive deer. But no, he is not delighted or relieved that today is going to be laidback because on the contrary – today is the day everything changes.

He has guarded the king, Neal, for several months now, as the queen and dauphin had retreated to their favourite winter retreat on the eastern coast of France. But today marks their official return to Paris and as such, the day Killian starts guarding them too.

Though it was nerve-wracking to guard the monarch he swore to defend against all threats, it is nothing like the nerves he is feeling today, realizing that now he is responsible for _three_ lives, not only one. And, with the return of the queen to Paris, it means the start of the busy and lively Parisian spring season, which will bring countless opportunities for anyone to do harm to any member of the royal family.

He’s been a Musketeer for almost two years now and before his appointment to the Royal Guard in January, he was assigned to guard the visiting nobility, either French nobles from the countryside or the foreign royals visiting Paris. That was easier; there was hardly ever life-or-death stakes for those nobles, no enemies around every corner, no whispered plots or thinly veiled threats.

But all things considered, even with Killian’s nerves on edge, this first day of guarding the three most important people in France is remarkably relaxed. An Italian duke is visiting from Florence and with the nice weather, the king has organized a hunt to welcome him to Paris. And though normally royal hunts only require the usual palace guards, because the hunt is off palace grounds and into the local forest known to house bandits and vagabonds, the royals require their Musketeer escort, a cohort of elite soldiers whose sole duty is to protect the monarch from any harm.

Lancelot and David are out securing the perimeter of the hunt against said vagabonds and bandits with some of the palace guards, leaving Killian, Robin, and Captain Humbert as the Musketeer escorts for the hunt itself. The remaining Musketeer, Will Scarlet, has remained behind with the dauphin on the palace grounds.

The young boy had complained of the heat, opting to stay at the shaded pavilion instead of trekking through a sweaty forest. Though it is a hot day, Killian suspects it wasn’t the heat that deterred the young prince, but rather the prospect of getting to fence with one of the Musketeers without the watchful eyes of his parents upon him. Killian met the boy briefly when Captain Humbert introduced him to the queen and prince earlier that day, but it was obvious the boy’s desires lay with sword fighting instead of traipsing after a deer.

Killian wishes he had been the one to stay behind, because he’d be responsible for just _one_ royal; just the way he likes it. But Captain Humbert had sensed that from him, and volunteered Will for the task instead.

So here Killian is, keeping a close distance to the royal party as they all trek through the woods, off to the deeper thicket where several deer were spotted that morning. Robin and Captain Humbert are ahead several paces, nearer to the king and the duke, and Killian has ended up at the end of the party, to the queen and her lady-in-waiting, Mary Margaret Whale.

Though Killian met Queen Emma earlier in the day, it had been a brief moment, nothing more than a mere acknowledgement of his elevated position. He’s seen her before, of course, but it was the first time he’d actually been within her presence. It had taken him a good minute to find his voice after coming face-to-face with her; she is almost ethereally beautiful, with pale golden curls and clear green eyes, a heart shaped face with a warm smile, one he witnessed her give her son before leaving him at the pavilion.

Though, from what Killian can see of her now, as he walks dutifully behind her and Mary Margaret, her smile has dissolved into a frown. Her brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed, and while Mary Margaret is speaking, Killian can tell the queen is distracted and not listening at all.

Her eyes are trained ahead on the king and the duke, who have been engrossed in conversation from the moment they began their walk. As Killian watches, another courtier approaches the men, bowing low. He and the duke begin a conversation, and this is the moment Emma was waiting for. She surges forward, leaving both Mary Margaret and Killian two steps behind her, and grasps the king’s arm.

“May I have a word? In private?”

The king frowns, clearly displeased. Killian thinks that he will brush her off, but the duke is now watching the exchange, so with a reluctant sigh, he nods.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I will rejoin you shortly.”

Triumph flashing in her eyes, Emma tugs the king off to the side of the path while the duke and the other courtiers continue. The Musketeers, including Killian, also halt, hovering a few feet from the royal couple and staring in the opposite direction of them, trying to give them some semblance of privacy.

Even though he’s been doing this for years now, this is one thing Killian has never gotten used to. Always lingering on the edge of the nobles’ lives, of private conversations he has no business hearing. But it’s his job to never be more than a step away should the unthinkable happen. And if anything, both king and queen seem used to it, as neither have even glanced at the Musketeers lingering around them.

When the courtiers are far enough away, Emma releases the king’s arm, and plants her hands on her hips. The warm smile Killian witnessed earlier has now completely disappeared, replaced with an icy glare and she skips all pleasantries.

“The Cardinal informed me he wishes to begin his lessons with Henry next week.”

Killian has heard the rumours about the tense relationship between the queen and the First Minister, and he feels a rush of comradery towards the queen at the venom in her tone. Not that Killian knows him personally, mind, but he’s met the man a few times himself and each time has left him with a sour taste in his mouth. It’s petty, but he feels rather smug to know that the Cardinal, for all his power, hasn’t swayed everyone to his side.

The king obviously senses the queen’s dislike too, and he sighs. “We’ve discussed this, Emma, and –”

“Yes, but when we last spoke you promised you would take my concerns into account, but it appears nothing has changed. Henry has hardly been in Paris a week and already the Cardinal is eager to snatch him up.”

The king rubs at his eyes. “Emma. It is important that Henry learn the future duties of a king and I see no better man than –”

“There are an infinite amount of better men than the Cardinal to teach Henry,” Emma retorts. “Besides that, Henry is not even ten years old. There is a time and place to learn, I agree, but not now. And, no matter what, it should not be at the knee of such a man. He is too young and impressionable and the Cardinal is too eager to fill his head with thoughts and ideas that Henry has no place considering until he is much older.”

The king regards her in cool silence, his brow furrowed, and for the first time, he glances at the Musketeers, who of course pretend to be highly interested in the surrounding foliage. He looks back to Emma, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Emma, you must accept that Henry is a French prince and therefore will be a Catholic monarch. I know you are not, and that is something I have reconciled myself to but –”

The queen lets out a snort of disgust and the glare she shoots the king is downright glacial. “If you think _religion_ is my main concern here, Neal, you do not know me at all. I know Henry is a French prince, as you like to remind me so often. Besides, his religious beliefs are between him and God. It is not that the Cardinal is a _Catholic_ , it is because the Cardinal does not wish to _educate_ Henry, he just wishes to shape him into a man who trusts only his word and –”

At that, the king’s eyes turn dark, and a cold understanding contorts his expression as he glares at his wife.

“Ah. Like me, I assume you mean?”

Emma doesn’t answer, lifting her chin in defiance, and that’s enough for the king.

“If the Cardinal sees fit to invite Henry for lessons, then I consent to it. If you are so concerned about it, milady, you can sit in on the Cardinal’s lessons with Henry; perhaps learning more about the way France is run will be beneficial to you as well.”

Emma opens her mouth to retort, fury burning in her eyes, but the king is already turning away and without another look to her, calls out to the Italian duke.

Robin and Captain Humbert bow as the king passes them, moving to follow his walk back to the rest of the group. The queen, however, remains rooted to the spot, glaring at the king’s retreating back, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

Killian remains near her, waiting to see what she will do. Her expression is angry and he half-expects her to stomp after the king, but her face changes, becoming neutral and cool. She lifts her gaze sharply, as if feeling Killian’s eyes on her for the first time and for a brief moment, their eyes lock.

He looks away first, back to surveying the perimeter of the woods, but that lasts for a few moments before his eyes fall back to Emma. She is watching him, brow creased in thought, and though Mary Margaret has moved to join her again, the queen doesn’t pay her any attention and she steps away from her lady-in-waiting, towards Killian.

“Jones, was it?”

Her tone isn’t unfriendly, but still Killian wonders if he’s somehow already gotten on the queen’s bad side by being present for the confrontation with Neal.

 “Aye, Your Majesty.”

She nods, giving nothing away, and says something quietly to Mary Margaret, who curtseys and departs to join the rest of the hunting party. When she’s gone, Emma sweeps her skirts into her hands, and marches off in the opposite direction.

“Walk with me, Sir Jones. I am bored of the hunt.”

Killian hesitates for a brief second but then takes off after the queen. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, and catches Robin’s eye. Killian inclines his head to the departing queen, and Robin nods in approval.

Killian hurries to catch up with Emma. Her step is quick, and she says, over her shoulder, “There is a small stream just ahead.”

She leads the way, and it’s only when Killian realizes she means to forge her own path through the scraggly bushes and hanging branches that he steps ahead of her. He pushes the bushes to the side with his leg and holds the branches out of her way. She raises an eyebrow at him, hands on her hips, but doesn’t comment, and after pushing through another few sets of branches they come upon the small stream.

Emma steps towards the trickling water, lifting her skirts from the damp ground, and bends down to pick up a smooth stone from the water’s edge. Killian stands off to the side, ready to hang around with her in silence until she decides to return to the rest of the group, but the queen surprises him.

She turns from the stream and regards him curiously. “Tell me, Sir Jones. How does an honoured English naval lieutenant end up disgraced and now serving as a French Musketeer?”

Killian isn’t sure he heard her correctly, and he blinks back at her. “I – pardon me?”

“You _are_ English, are you not?”

He manages a numb nod as his mind swirls and twists, the life he left behind so long ago slamming back into his memories with a vengeance.

How does _she_ know about that?

This part of his past is known only to Captain Humbert, and it is a past he’s worked hard to conceal. Not that he’s ashamed of it, no, but because he wants _nothing_ to do with the country that sent his brother to slaughter, nothing to do with the country who offered him only cruelty and pain.

(Not to mention, France is currently at war with England, so the idea of an Englishman guarding the French king could create a _mite_ of trouble.)

 “I – did the Captain tell you?” he manages finally, and the queen laughs.

“Captain Humbert didn’t have to,” she says, clearly pleased with herself for catching him off guard. “However light, your French is spoken with an accent. Although,” she adds, with a smirk, “he did mention you had been discharged rather disgracefully from the English Navy when I asked what an Englishman was doing in the king’s Musketeers.”

Killian stares at her for a second longer, and then shakes his head, pushing the shock aside. “I did not mean to conceal it from you or the king,” he swears. “It was a long time ago now, and I am loyal to France, and to you –”

Emma just smiles. “Don’t worry, I know. Captain Humbert takes only the best. But I’m curious. I have never met a foreign-born Musketeer before; usually you lot are French to the bone.”

She’s looking at him expectantly now, her arched brow a demand for the rest of the story. He almost deflects, but there’s a lingering edge of tension to her shoulders, and Killian wonders if she’s not just trying to get answers from him, but wanting to distract him from what he witnessed with the king.

And so, he explains, “I was born in London. But I lived in Calais with my father and my brother for a time after my mother’s death. He was a merchant stationed there. In my youth, when I did return to England, it was not for long as I joined the Navy shortly afterwards, but that didn’t last very long.”

Emma frowns, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “And why not?”

But even to appease the Queen of France herself, this is a part of his past he’s not willing to share.

He shrugs, and smiles cheekily. “I simply decided to try my hand at a new adventure. I thought to myself – what is the opposite thing to an English sailor? And a French Musketeer it was.”

Emma stares at him seriously for a moment, something about her expression telling Killian she knows he’s lying. To his relief, she doesn’t press it, and she accepts his answer with a nod.

“Well, I am glad to have you in our service, Sir Jones. Captain Humbert was quite complimentary about your skills.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Emma turns back to the stream then, and they fall back into silence. She walks along it for a few minutes, Killian trailing behind her, and she pauses when she comes to a small cluster of larger rocks several metres downstream, all piled in an intentional heap. For whatever reason, the queen regards at the rocks for several long moments, a wistful expression on her face, before twisting back to look at Killian.

“Calais, did you say?”

“Aye.”

“What’s it like there?”

Killian pauses, considering, and his eyes fall on the little stream, with its tiny trickle of water. He thinks of the huge expanse of blue ocean that extended far from Calais in every direction, the stunning white cliffs of Dover across the channel visible on clear days and the dozens of cliffs shadowing Calais too. Though he spent the first years of his life there, it feels like a lifetime ago. He did pass through the city on his way to Paris, but he’d been on the run, trying to get as far from the English as possible, with no time to waste reminiscing on his childhood home.

Still, his mind is drawn to the beautiful ocean of his memories, the busy and active harbour, the high-walled and fortressed city and cathedral watching over it all.

“It is lovely,” he says, and he steps forward to bend down to the stream. He pulls his leather gloves off, running his fingers through the cold water near the strange little pile of rocks. The cold water, numbing his fingers, has him remembering the cold ocean his brother Liam had pushed him into on too many occasions, and he adds, “Cold, usually. And rainy come to think of it. But lovely.”

Emma hums in thought, and she bends down next to him, running her own fingers through the cold water, the water tracing over the single ring she wears and making it glint in the sunlight, the swan crest gleaming.

“I have never been there,” she says, and there’s a bitter twist to her words that makes Killian glance sharply to her. Her expression is tight, eyes guarded, mouth turned down into a frown.

“The king spoke of taking me there years ago, but we never made it.”

She reaches forward, and places the stone she collected earlier onto the top of the other rocks. She looks at the pile again for a few moments, but Killian is watching her. Her expression is more apt to that of someone mourning at a gravestone, and he wonders what it signifies to her.

“Perhaps you will make it to Calais someday, Your Majesty.” 

Emma smiles thoughtfully, finally looking away from the rocks. “Perhaps.”

She rises, brushing her hands dry on her skirt, but the ground underneath is still slick with the melting winter frost, and her feet slip out from under her. Instinctively, she reaches out for something to stabilize her, her left hand reaching out to Killian’s shoulder and her right grabs at the sharp pile of rocks.

Her grip on his shoulder tightens as she pulls her right hand back again and she mutters something very un-queen-like under her breath as she straightens up. Killian sees the bright flash of crimson staining her palm as she lifts up her hand to examine it and his heart drops into his stomach.

_Brilliant job, Jones, you let the queen get injured in your first hour of guarding her._

He’s standing again before he realizes it, tugging Emma up beside him and reaching out for her hand to examine it himself.

“Your hand, it’s cut, let me help –”

She frowns, and pulls her hand out of his reach as she side-steps away. “No, no, it’s fine –”

Killian steps forward, blocking her path. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, if you should return with a bloody hand and one that I didn’t at least attempt to treat, the captain will make me muck out the stables for two weeks straight.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but nevertheless extends her hand towards him. “Fine.” 

He levels her hand at eye line with his left hand and fishes out his flask from the inner lining of his jacket with his other hand, popping the cork out with his mouth. Emma raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t have a chance to say anything before he’s dumping the liquid all over her hand.

“Ouch! What – _what_ is that?”

“It’s rum,” Killian replies mildly, and he peers at her hand to make sure it was all covered by the alcohol. “To clean the wound.”

The queen huffs a sigh. “So you carry rum with you when you’re on duty, do you?”

Killian chuckles. “Never hurts to have some on hand,” he replies, and he can’t help but grinning at his unexpected pun. “As you see.”

The queen sighs, but it’s in good humour and Killian swears the corner of her mouth turn up in a smile. Killian unravels a thin black scarf he’d thrown on in the morning to keep away some of the early chill away, and wraps it around her palm. He realizes that with his left hand propping up the queen’s injured hand, he has no other choice but to use his mouth to tie the knot.

It’s definitely breaking about a thousand rules of etiquette, but it’s either that or allow the queen to return with a bloody hand and a possible infection. So he ignores the way her eyebrows raise and the sharp intake of breath she takes as he brings her hand up to his mouth.

She’s silent as he works on tying the scarf around her wrist, her gaze heavy, and he’s surprised how hard it is to remain focused on his task. Her hand is soft, and the sweet smell of her rose perfume infiltrates his senses and makes it even harder to focus.

As he ties the final knot, Emma says, “Is this how you charm all the ladies?” and he wonders if the breathlessness he hears in her voice is leftover from the sting of the rum.

“Most ladies I charm don’t tend to traipse through the woods and streams and cut their hands open on rocks, milady.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but this time her lips have definitely curved into a small smile. “Alright, Sir Jones; let’s return before we’re missed.”

Killian drops her hand, which he hadn’t even realized he was still holding, and allows Emma to step ahead of him to lead the way back. But instead of re-joining the hunting party, Emma leads him back towards the palace, and as they near the grand gardens, with their greening lawns and budding flowers, Killian spots the young dauphin and Will fencing.

The queen waves to her son as he calls out a greeting, but doesn’t move to join him. Several of her ladies who remained behind call out for her too as she approaches, but before they can sweep her away, Emma turns back and smiles at Killian. It’s the smile he saw her give Henry earlier, so bright and warm that it leaves him momentarily stunned that _he_ , of all people, is on the receiving end of it.

“Thank you, Sir Jones,” Emma says, and she raises her bandaged hand in acknowledgement.

He manages a nod, and as Killian moves to take up a post behind the queen’s shaded chair, the thought crosses his mind that perhaps the queen’s return to Paris won’t be as bad as he initially believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the amazing fanart created for this chapter and the story over all:  
> http://hook-and-star-ink.tumblr.com/post/164574681687/the-musketeer-and-the-queen-title-if-the  
> http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/164563226833/if-the-stars-align-chapter-i-by  
> http://seastarved.tumblr.com/post/164563137913/if-the-stars-align-by-swanslieutenant-the 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing response so far! And thank you for all the kudos/comments! I really appreciate every single one :)

The first event of the Parisian season is a glittering dance held in one of the Louvre’s magnificent ballrooms. The already luxurious ballroom is even more decorated tonight, with stark white tablecloths, embroidered in gold, and glittering glass sculptures as centrepieces on every table. Solid silver goblets are filled to the brim with wine and champagne, crystal serving-trays piled high with every kind of appetizer imaginable.

It’s the first real ball Killian has attended, and the extravagance is breathtaking.

This ball is held every year to welcome the queen back to Paris for the summer and is the first time in many months that all of the nobility are back together. Since Emma started taking her winter retreats a decade ago, it has become the fashion for the rich ladies of France to disappear for the cold months, only returning to the capital when the first signs of spring appear. Now, with all of them back together in time for the Parisian season, the excitement of everyone’s return to the capital is palpable in the animated chatter and laughs filling the ballroom.

The Musketeers are milling around, taking stock of exits, entrances, and the attendees. Killian’s watching them too, though his assignment is to guard the west doors to the ballroom until the royal family arrives, lest something happen or someone rushes at them as they enter.

While he’s still nervous about guarding the royals, he feels a bit more relaxed than he had at the hunt; he knows these nobles from his time spent guarding them, and though there are the few who grumble about the current king in attendance, tonight they seem in good spirits.

David is guarding the doors with him, alert and watchful. The man’s not technically a Musketeer yet, having joined their regiment just a few weeks ago. He’d stormed into the barracks, fresh off his farm in the eastern valleys of France, and accused Robin of murdering his father. He was wrong, of course, but Captain Humbert had been impressed with his skill and courage and hired him on as a soldier for the royals. He is a fine soldier, and even without that fleur-de-lis pauldron to mark him as a Musketeer, Killian feels entirely confident standing guard with him tonight.

As he is surveying the scene for what feels like the hundredth time, the doors behind Killian finally start to open. He looks, as does half the crowd, but it’s not the royal family. Instead, a flood of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting emerge, glittering and sparkling in the overhead chandelier’s candlelight. The queen isn’t among them, and Killian turns away, back to surveying, but David remains focused on the ladies. 

“Who is she?” he asks, and Killian follows David’s eye line.

Most of the ladies have already floated away, disappearing with young men eager for their presence, but a single woman remains, speaking softly to one of the palace guards. Killian recognizes her from the day of the hunt as the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting.

“That’s Mary Margaret Whale, the queen’s lady. And,” he adds, as a thin, lithe man appears at her side, arm out to guide her away, “the court physician’s wife.”

David’s brow furrows as the couple drift passed them, his eyes trained on Mary Margaret’s back until they disappear into the crowd, obscured by the rest of the attendees. Killian watches with a bit of amusement at his comrade’s reaction, but he doesn’t have a chance to comment on it before the doors at his back swing open again, this time revealing the king and the queen.

Killian hardly looks at the king, his eyes drawn to Queen Emma instead. She’s dressed in a deep crimson gown, plain from embroidery or detail except for glittering rubies around the neckline and cuffs. Her hair is up in an elaborate twist, wisps of curls escaping the knot framing her face in almost ethereal manner, and nestled amongst the curls is a slender silver circlet encrusted with diamonds. A matching silver necklace hangs around her bare neck, and both sparkle brilliantly whenever they catch the light.

She’s absolutely stunning.

Killian bows as the king and queen pass him, perhaps a second too late. Once they’re passed, Killian straightens and, with David at his side, falls into step behind the royal couple as they make their way towards a pair of elaborate thrones at the end of the hall. Robin and Lancelot appear as if by magic beside them, and the four Musketeers trail the king and queen through the bowing and curtseying crowd.  

The king drops onto his throne when he reaches it, but Emma just perches on hers long enough to allow the master of ceremony, a man who sneezes through half his speech, announce the ball now officially open. The moment he’s done, she’s moving away from the raised dais, gesturing for her ladies to follow, and leading them out onto the dancefloor. That’s the cue for the band; harpsicord, lute, and viol music fill the spacious ballroom as other attendees move out onto the floor now too, spilling onto it as if multi-coloured jewels falling from a pouch.

Lancelot and David step back behind the king’s throne, guarding him as several advisors scurry up to speak with him. Killian makes a move to join them, but Robin grabs his arm.

“Go keep an eye on the queen. You know the guests here better than anyone; any unsavoury characters approach her, make your presence known, alright? I’ll be circling around if you need me.”

It’s easy to find Emma on the dancefloor. She’s dancing with one of the king’s distant cousins, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at whatever comment he said and offering a teasing remark back.

Killian slips into the crowd, careful to keep her in his sight as the night continues on, the swell of music and cheer carrying the evening well into the darkened night.

<> 

By the time the evening sun has faded into a misty moonlit night, the energy in the ballroom is just beginning to decline. Emma feels like she’s been dancing for hours and though Neal rolls his eyes at her and never dances anymore, preferring to spend his time muttering away with any number of his advisors, Emma never misses an opportunity to do so.

While balls to most courtiers are nothing but a time to socialize and intrigue and flirt, dancing means something more to Emma.

Dancing was the one spark of light that had existed amongst the shadows and darkness of her childhood. With no family and only a kind heart of her godmother, the then-exiled Queen Ingrid of Denmark, Emma was lucky to have the opportunity to learn to dance at all, let alone to have even survived. Her parents had died within weeks of her birth, slain for their support for Ingrid by the usurper king, Hans from Norway. If she’d been any other girl, she’d have been shipped off to one of the many overcrowded orphanages, lost to the perils of poverty and despair, and never heard from again.  

But Emma was lucky; she was born a minor princess of a loyal duchy, and her parents’ loyalty and resulting deaths had warmed the exiled Danish queen’s heart. Growing up with Ingrid and her two orphaned nieces Elsa and Anna had meant a life on the run, with days spent in dark castles and cold houses, but Emma almost always had a roof over her head and some food in her belly. And in the calmer periods, when they'd been safe enough in one place for a time, there had been dancing lessons.

Those had been a reprieve from the monotony and darkness of each day. Though there was no time or money for the lavish balls she now gets to host in France, whenever there was a spare moment, with the music tutor plucking a simple tune on the lute, she and Elsa and Anna had danced in their schoolroom. It usually resulted in peals of laughter, as whoever was the male partner for that turn often became into a mock impersonation of Hans, with a wide gait and terrible manners.

Upon her arrival to Paris, when she was just sixteen, when she was nothing more than the bride sent as a _“thanks for helping us defeat the Norwegian usurper”_ to the old French king’s distant nephew, she’d nearly been overwhelmed by the easy wealth of the French courts. Dancing and balls here are common occurrences, and it’s one of the few traditions Emma happily continues on now that she’s queen.

Though Neal has nothing to do with her at these events, Emma is never without a partner. Everyone wants to dance with her, to bestow some shallow compliment or whisper some desired favour in her ear. Her cheeks hurt from all the tight lipped 'polite' smiles she gives in return, but Emma supposes it's a small price to pay to get to dance as much as she wants.

Though her current partner is challenging that idea. Count Walsh is visiting from Marseille, a wealthy city in the south of France. His wealth almost single-handedly funded the previous year's skirmishes with the Holy Roman Empire, and with the swagger and arrogant smirk on his face, he knows it. He reeks of wealth and confidence, and though Emma has already danced two dances with him, everyone else in attendance knows the count's power, and none are so bold as to step in and claim a dance for themselves.

It's up to Emma to save herself.

She's plotting her escape for when the current song ends, casting a look around the ballroom for some excuse to step away as Walsh swings her out into another twirl.

“You know,” he says, as he brings her back, leading her rather forcefully into the next steps of the dance, “I once spent a winter in Bordeaux. Terribly cold place. Next year, you and the dauphin should come to Marseille instead. It's warm there, much warmer than rainy Bordeaux. I’d be more than happy to host you."

That sounds like the worst idea Emma’s ever heard, but she just smiles kindly back at the count.

"That is a kind offer, but I am quite happy in Bordeaux. It is not too far from Paris, and Henry likes to spend some time by the water."

"Marseille has plenty of water to keep the boy entertained," Walsh counters quickly. "And your presence there would be more than welcome. After all,” he adds, in a tone that makes Emma’s skin crawl, “my people would be overjoyed to see you and the dauphin. To see who exactly their taxes are defending.”

His hand on her back slides a little too low then and Emma stiffens, hoping the glare she gives him is reminiscent of the cold winter he spent in Bordeaux. She grabs his hand with her own, raising it back to her waist and gives him a cool smile, hating that she has to be diplomatic when she wants to stomp on his foot and shove him away from her instead.

“Like I said, Your Grace, my son and I are happy in Bordeaux. If that should change, Marseille is at the top of our list.”

Walsh smiles back, but he’s caught wind of her cool tone, and his own smile is cold and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m glad to hear that, Your Majesty.”

Their dance continues in silence for the next several steps. Emma keeps her cool composure as best she can, while underneath she’s stewing in anger. She wishes she could give him a piece of her mind for being so bold and forward, could slap his hand away and embarrass him in front of the whole court, but being a queen requires delicacy. If he wasn't so powerful and the reason France wasn't entirely bankrupt by the last war, she would have already called the Musketeers over to speak to him firmly about "boundaries."

But she can't do that, can't risk offending him, not when the French troops need the money he provides to survive, and having the Musketeers manhandle him out of the ballroom would certainly spell trouble for future fundraising efforts.

An idea for her escape sparks in Emma's mind then, and she looks around the ballroom again. Speaking of the Musketeers ... yes, there he is. She noticed Killian Jones the moment she had entered the ballroom several hours ago now. He was standing guard by the doors, waiting for their arrival, and has trailed her every step this evening, watching carefully for danger. For some reason, seeing him assigned to her for the night had sent a thrill through her, and she wonders now if she wasn’t waiting for some excuse to call him over longer than she realized.

He's now on the outskirts of the dancing ring, surveying the crowd around her for signs of trouble, and their eyes catch. Emma nods once at him, and as the music comes to a stop, fading into the crowd’s applause, Killian steps onto the dance floor and approaches her and Count Walsh.

"Sir Jones, there you are," Emma says, with a wide smile. "I've been wondering where you got to."

Confusion flashes across his face, but his expression swiftly neutralizes and he dips into a low bow. "Your Majesty, Your Grace.” He glances to Walsh, his brow furrowing at the tight grip the count still has on Emma’s hands. “Is everything alright?"

Walsh finally turns to face him now, and he surveys Killian with a curled lip and cool smirk; Emma's dislike of the count only increases.

"Everything is fine, soldier," he says dismissively, as if Killian is no more than a bug under his shoe. "You can return to your post."

"Actually," Emma counters, finally managing to yank her hands free of his grip. "Sir Jones was promised a dance."

Killian's eyes widen in surprise, mouth dropping slightly open, but by the time Walsh has turned to glare at him with narrowed eyes, he’s nodding with a sheepish smile as if he'd known of this plan all along. 

“Ah, yes. I believe that’s right. My apologies, Your Grace.”

Walsh's cold eyes remain on Killian for a moment longer, before he shifts his cool gaze to Emma instead.

"How kind of you, Your Majesty, to dance with a lowly soldier."

This time her polite smile is more like a grimace, but she doesn’t even care. The music is starting again, rising and calling the dancers to a waltz, and Emma steps away from Walsh to Killian’s side. Before Walsh can say anything else, she grips Killian's arm, leading him to the other side of the dance floor, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," she says, when they are out of earshot. “I cannot stand that man.”

Killian nods, the corners of his mouth twisting up. “Understandable.”

He bows, nodding to her once, and starts to turn away. Emma frowns and grabs his arm again, stopping him in his tracks.

"What are you doing?"

"I was – did you not want to just leave the Count's presence?"

“Yes, but because _we_ are to dance now,” she says, gesturing to the gathering dancers. He stares blankly back at her, and Emma can’t help but smile at his expression. “Come now, Sir Jones. If we do not dance, Count Walsh will notice and we can’t have that.” She holds her hand out for Killian to take. "Come on. I promise I don't bite."

He stares at her extended hand, looking dumbfounded. “I am only a soldier. I am not a dancer.”

“Well, I am,” Emma says confidently, and she takes Killian’s hand in her own, pulling him closer. “And I’ll let you in on a secret, Sir Jones,” she adds, as she guides one hand to her waist, finding a secret thrill in the way his eyes widen even more. “There’s only one rule to waltzes; you have to pick a partner who knows what she’s doing.”

For all his hesitation and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, when they begin their first steps, it turns out that Killian is a natural dancer. He follows her lead carefully the first time they go through the steps, Emma murmuring the next moves in advance to him as they come. When the first lift comes, his hands are strong around her waist, warm and steady, and though she’s done this dance with hundreds of partners before, his grip on her is something entirely different. Before she can stop herself, she wonders what how much warmer his hands would be without her heavy dress in the way, how the rough calluses on his hands would feel against her smooth skin.

As quickly as she thinks them, she shuts those thoughts down, locking them away, a bit taken aback at herself. Yes, it’s been a long time – that part of her relationship ended with Neal not long after Henry’s birth – and yes, the Musketeer is handsome – one of the most attractive men Emma’s ever laid eyes on, if she’s being honest – but those are dangerous thoughts for any married woman to have, and she’s not just _any_ married woman.

But at the same time, she’s still _just_ a woman, a woman dancing with a beautiful man, and she’s thankful her skin is already flushed from dancing as she feels her cheeks warm even more. Emma’s had a lot of practice keeping her face unreadable, and though she will admit he took her off guard the other day when he tied that scarf around her hand (with his teeth of all things!), she keeps her face carefully neutral as he lowers her from the lift, spinning her out into another turn.

This part of the dance has her dancing with another partner for a step, and by the time she’s returned to Killian’s arms, she hopes any lingering trace of her reaction has disappeared. And if he noticed anything, he doesn’t say anything and they continue on the dance. Killian’s confidence increases and by the time another full repeat of the steps come around, he’s sure enough to hold a conversation instead of quietly studying the steps.

“How is your hand, Your Majesty? The one that was cut last week?”

She holds it up for his inspection as she returns to his arms from a twirl; there’s a thin line where the rock cut her remaining, but nothing else.

“Healing quite well. Thanks to your rum, no doubt.”

He chuckles as he takes her hand in his own for the next steps of the dance. “As I said, it comes in handy.”

The dance carries on, Emma and Killian gliding over the polished floor as if they’ve danced together all their lives. As his surety increases and his attitude shifts away from studious, a different edge appears to his eyes now, intense and heady. Though he may not have noticed her reaction to him before, it’s now his turn. His grip on her hands and around her waist tightens ever so slightly, and as they go through the remaining steps of the dance, Emma’s not sure she remembers how to breathe. There’s something like lightning in the air between them now, crackling and sparking, as breakable and fragile as glass, and if she feels if she looks away or lets go of his hands something will shatter and this moment will be forever gone.

But the dance won’t last forever. As the music swells and falls into its last crescendo, they break eye contact as Killian bows for the final step of the dance.

And as he bows, Emma looks over his head, spotting Count Walsh, lurking on the edge of the crowd like a predator stalking its prey.

Her mood darkens, and that moment she wanted to keep forever shatters.

Walsh moves towards them as the music dims, and as Killian rises, Emma tightens her grip on his arm so he can’t step away. He follows her gaze over his shoulder, and when he faces her again, there is steel in his eyes.

“Another dance?”

Though she wants nothing more, Emma knows it’s unwise. One gracious dance with a new Musketeer is allowed; she’s danced with Captain Humbert and some of the others before, but two dances in one night with the same soldier? The gossips would have a field day.

She knows she shouldn’t, know she should thank Killian for the dance and move on and find a different way to avoid Walsh’s attentions, but Emma isn’t ready to see the Musketeer walk away from her just yet.

“Yes –”

Before she can finish her sentence, there’s a quick flash of movement in front of her. Emma thinks it’s Count Walsh, ready to pounce, but her eyes focus and she realizes it’s Mary Margaret.

“Oh,” she says, unable to stop the way her heart sinks at the sight of her friend. Her presence now will make it nearly impossible for Emma to dance again with Killian without making a bigger deal out of it. “Mary Margaret.”

“I wanted to remind you we have an early morning tomorrow.” Her eyes glance over to Count Walsh, lurking at the sidelines, and Emma feels a rush of affection for her. There is no event tomorrow morning, and Emma feels a swoop of guilt for her momentary resentment; her friend is just trying to help her out.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for reminding me.”

Mary Margaret nods, and her eyes flicker to Killian curiously, to where Emma’s hand rests on his arm. Immediately Emma straightens, withdrawing her hand, and clears her throat.

“Thank you for the dance, Sir Jones,” she says, and he ducks his head in a bow.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Have a good evening.” 

Emma allows Mary Margaret to link her arm with hers, drawing her away. Count Walsh slinks away as they pass, and Emma doesn’t dare glance over her shoulder to look back to Killian, too aware of the people lining the ballroom who curtsey and bow, watching her every move. After all, people must’ve already seen her reluctance to step away after one dance, and looking back to see whether or not Killian is watching her could make it more than it is.

After all, he’s nothing more than a Musketeer and she’s the queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity:  
> http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/164825905958/if-the-stars-align-chapter-2-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter III

Two weeks after the queen and dauphin’s return to court, Killian stands with his fellow Musketeers in the receiving chamber of the Louvre. It’s late morning, the high noon sun streaming in and illuminating the wide hall in gold light, casting grey shadows where it hits the tall marble pillars that reach to the intricately decorated ceiling. The palace is a masterpiece of architecture, beautiful and elegant, and Killian is still getting used to being in its presence almost daily.

Today, like the day of the ball, the palace is humming with activity. The clattering steps of the many servants flowing in and out of the receiving chamber echo tenfold with the three storey high ceilings and marble floors, making it seem like there are double the servants. 

Killian pays none of them any attention. He’s not even listening to the quiet chatter of the other Musketeers whilst they wait for the arrival of the king and queen. They’ve been discussing last minute drills and procedures should anything unforeseen occur on the route to Notre Dame for the celebration of the king and queen’s tenth coronation for _hours_ now.

And though Killian is nervous – this is, after all, the _real_ first test of his skills guarding the entire royal family in a public setting with the common folk of Paris – they’ve been over the scenarios so many times in the last days that they have started appearing in his dreams. He knows them as well as the back of his hand now, and if he studies them anymore, he’ll be left permanently cross-eyed.

Footsteps outside the main doors echo into the room, disrupting the chatter of the Musketeers. The footmen, who’d been talking amongst themselves, hurry to swing them wide. It’s just in time for the king to enter the chamber, dressed in elegant robes of gold and silver with a tall crown atop his brown hair. Several ministers trail along in behind, murmuring and muttering amongst themselves, and the king himself is in conversation with the First Minister of France, Cardinal Gold.

As always, seeing the cardinal makes Killian’s stomach turn with unease, a feeling not helped as he watches Gold whisper something further into the king’s ear, his conspiratorial tone evident from even this distance.

He’s not sure why the cardinal (whose given name of Gold suits him far better than any clerical title ever could) makes him so uncomfortable and makes his fingers twitch almost unconsciously towards his sword, but it’s been this way since Killian first started serving as Musketeer. The cardinal is cold and calculating, and despite his loud and proclaimed promises to always have France’s best interests at heart, Killian doubts there is anything other than power that he desires.

The king relies on him heavily for guidance, having grown up with no education on kingship, and he’s currently so engrossed with their conversation that he gives no acknowledgement of the deep bows the servants and the Musketeers make upon his entrance.

As Killian rises from his bow, he catches the cardinal’s curled lip of distaste as he surveys the Musketeers. And, almost as if Gold can sense Killian’s own unfriendly thoughts, his gaze shifts to him. His eyes are as dark and cold as ever, but he barely lingers on Killian for longer than a second, surveying him and dismissing him as nothing more than another blue-cloaked Musketeer, a gnat he probably wishes he could squash and replace with one of his Red Guards instead.

“Captain,” the king says, having now noticed the assembled Musketeers. “There you are. I was telling the Cardinal the most worrying turn of events, and I know this is a matter that will be of the utmost concern to you as well –”

Captain Humbert steps forwards and is swept down the hall at the king’s side. Gold quickens his step to keep up with the king and Captain Humbert, and they’re followed by the other ministers, all eager to keep close to the king. Another squadron of Musketeers take up the rear of this little party, blue sapphire cloaks swirling with each step they take, disappearing into the courtyard beyond.

Killian watches the retreating backs, unable to shake his unease, until Lancelot claps him on the shoulder and brings him abruptly out of it.  

“Alright there, Jones?”

He doesn’t answer, as the rhythmic footsteps against the marble begin again before he can. The footmen never closed the doors after the king’s entrance, and the queen’s troupe come around the corner. Unlike the dour mutters of the king’s companions, the queen’s retinue is full of laughs and excitement, their pleasant voices echoing around them as they enter the large hall. Killian and his fellows bow deeply as Queen Emma approaches; she pauses once she’s reached them, and they rise at her halt.

She is exceptionally beautiful today, Killian notes with a good deal of awe. Her hair is swept into an elaborate curled twist, and a crown several inches high made from solid gold and glittering diamonds sits nestled among the curls. The wire framing of her large ruff is intricately decorated in gold, making it appear as if a halo shone around her, and her dress is similarly golden and detailed with several different shades of golden thread embroidered in a fleur-de-lis pattern. Diamonds are sewn into the tight corset, and she sparkles in the sunlight from the high windows as if she herself was the sun.

Killian is speechless, as he thinks his fellow Musketeers are. Robin recovers first and greets her first with a soft, “Your Majesty,” that the others quickly echo.

She smiles in greeting. “Henry will be here shortly and he wishes to walk out with all of you.”

They have to wait a few minutes until another clattering of footsteps echoes through the chamber and the dauphin’s retinue enters the hall. The young boy skips up to Emma, grasping onto her hand. He is dressed similarly to his mother, all gold and fleur-de-lis with a simple golden circlet around his head, and he tucks himself close against her skirts, waving shyly to the Musketeers.

The hum of the awaiting crowd outside the palace gates grows as the group nears the courtyard, the loud enthusiasm of the common folk eager to see the royals spilling into the palace grounds itself. When Emma and Henry step out into the shadowed courtyard, the crowd erupts in cheers.

They both smile, waving generously at them, but Henry is shy. He clambers ahead of his mother, catapulting himself into the royal carriage. Killian can hear the _oomph_ of annoyance from the cardinal within as Henry lands on his foot and can’t help but smirk to himself.

Emma pauses a little longer to wave to the crowds, who roar in appreciation and call out her name in excitement, before slipping behind the carriage to get in on the other side.

Killian is the nearest to her, and reaches out to help her up the steps, one hand gripping hers and the other to the small of her back. She accepts his hand without question, holding tight as she takes the step up with all her heavy skirts protesting. He catches her eye, and Killian is brought back instantly to their dance a few nights ago when it seemed electricity had been dancing with them too.

He can feel the blood start to pound in his head, and he would be lying if he didn’t think there was more colour to her cheeks now as well. But then she is stepping further into the carriage, the door shut firmly behind her golden skirts by a footman, and the moment is gone.

Killian steps back from the carriage as it moves away, rattling down the old cobblestone courtyard, and has to blink several times to clear his thoughts. Will, who has already mounted his own horse, brings Killian’s up beside him now, and Killian mounts quickly, spurring into full soldier mode as he falls into his assigned place of protection at the rear of the royal carriage.

_Get it together, Killian, you’ve got a job to do._

The streets of Paris are full of eager spectators, their excitement spreading through the crowd like a wave as the royal carriage lumbers down the rough cobblestoned roads to Notre Dame. The streets are narrow, shaded and dark from overhanging houses, but somehow people have managed to cram into every nook and cranny to watch the royals go by.

Robin and Killian, at the rear of the carriage, are both surveying crowd with sharp eyes, looking for any trace of danger. They’re lucky; everything is going smoothly until about one block to Notre Dame when Robin jolts his horse to a stop, whirling around in his saddle to stare at the crowd on the east side of the block.

Killian’s heartbeat surges with adrenaline, and he twists his horse around to trot back to Robin’s side, wrapping the reins around his left hand while his right reaches for the sword at his belt.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Robin doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on the crowd around them, and Killian scans the people too. He has no idea what he’s looking for – or who – and he just sees the excited crowd, some staring curiously back at him now.

Robin shakes his head then, his face pale, eyes wide, looking remarkably like he just saw a ghost.

That reaction alarms Killian even more. “What happened? What did you see?”

Robin frowns, and then pulls the reins of his horse, turning them back around. “It’s nothing. I thought I saw ... but that’s not possible.” He squares his shoulders, and sets his jaw into a hard line. “Come on. We’re falling behind.”

He spurs his horse forward, and Killian, taken aback by whatever has just occurred, takes a moment longer to follow, sending out a final, uneasy look onto the crowd and whoever could be hiding in it.

The feeling of uneasiness hasn’t dissipated when they arrive at Notre Dame, and Robin grips his arm tightly as they dismount their horses, his face tight and severe.

“No need to worry the royal family. I thought I saw something, but I was mistaken.”

Killian regards him quietly, but has no choice but to nod in agreement. From the expression on his face, Killian knows that even if he demanded to know more, he wouldn’t get any answer.

The ceremony at Notre Dame is long and full of long perfunctory rituals and onerous speeches, scheduled to go on for so long that when Killian first heard about them all, he was sure he’d never be able to stay awake for the entire time. But luckily, the cardinal begins with a history of the king’s ascent to the throne, his voice grand and echoing through the cavernous hall of Notre Dame, and Killian’s interest is piqued.  

When he was born, Neal was a minor prince in an off-shoot branch with no prospects but a lordship over a manor in the French countryside. But with war deaths and disease plaguing the royal household, he had suddenly become the first in line to the French crown at the age of 24 and, a few short months later, the king.

Killian has heard all that before; the king’s history is proclaimed often and through France as a testament to working hard and achieving your dreams ... even though all he did to achieve power was have everyone ahead of him die, but sure.  

The true interesting part to him is the queen’s history, and he’s expecting that to follow, but the cardinal skips over her completely, jumping ahead to instead the birth of Henry, a few months before the king’s ascension.

No one else in the crowd seems to have noticed anything amiss, and maybe it’s Killian’s own biases, but the cardinal’s blatant disregard for the Queen of France irks him and he sends the man a dark glare from his stance against the wall. It’s on the queen’s behalf, of course, because her life is deserving as much of a speech as the king’s, but also he’s selfish and wants to know more about her beginnings.

Killian was sailing for England during her ascent to the throne, blissfully ignorant to the rest of the world. From the bare bones he does know, Emma was a minor princess from Denmark whose parents were killed in the fight to restore the Danish queen Ingrid to the throne before she was even a year old. A usurper from Norway had stolen the throne, and it was a long, bloody battle that left the country in ruins and, as far as Killian knows, still recovering today. Emma had grown up with the exiled Danish queen and her two similarly orphaned nieces, but it was not until she was a young teenager that Ingrid had been able to take back her throne.

And because she was a minor princess (unlike the queen’s nieces who were the two heirs to the throne) it was as thanks for French assistance during the war that she was married to off to one of them. The king had been only that minor prince and no one thought then that a minor Protestant princess from a peripheral duchy in a small country wrecked by civil war, with no dowry to speak of, would ever have a chance at becoming the Queen of France. If they had, Emma never would be sitting on the throne she is right now, adorned in gold and jewels, the ancient crown of French Queens resting in her golden curls.

Hours later, when the Mass is over and all the speeches said, they return to the Louvre. The trip back is smooth, though Robin appears to be searching the crowd with more vigour than normal. Killian tries to catch his eye, but Robin pointedly ignores him the entire journey back to the Louvre. 

The royals and the cardinal are all quiet as they exit the carriage when they’re back at the Louvre, trudging up the steps of the palace with a tiredness to their steps. The king and cardinal disappear to the king’s study without a glance towards the Musketeers, and Henry’s so grumpy that Emma orders him to go take a nap. He protests, whining and stomping his feet as all overtired children do, and it takes Mary Margaret taking his hand and leading him away for him to finally quieten down.

Emma looks tired and drained herself, but she stops at the top of the stairs before following Mary Margaret and Henry, turning back to look at the Musketeers with a smile.

“Thank you for your hard work.” Her eyes slide to Killian, and he swears a corner of her lips tilt up even more. “See you all at the dinner this evening.”

The Musketeers all murmur a goodbye as she turns back to the palace, disappearing into the foyer.

Killian stretches, ready for a nap himself before they have to return to the palace later, and his eyes fall on Robin. He nearly forgot about his strange reaction that morning after all the hours of monotony, but it all comes rushing back.

“Robin,” he says, voice quiet so the others can’t hear, “are you going to tell me what happened on the way to the Cathedral?”

Robin’s expression darkens, and he gathers the reins of his horse in his hand. “It was nothing. I told you to forget it.”

He strides away, pulling his horse after him, leaving Killian annoyed and with even more questions. Robin is the calmest of all the Musketeers, hardly ever losing his temper, and Killian wonders about what on earth he saw earlier that spooked him so.

<> 

That night, Emma and Neal host his advisors and ministers for a quiet meal. The more formal dinner for the coronation anniversary will take place later this week once the visiting counts and dukes have all arrived from their holdings through France. With the war against England raging on, not everyone had been able to make it for the Mass at Notre Dame, and Emma can’t help feel envious they got to miss it and she didn’t.

If she told Neal that, he’d roll his eyes and remind her she’s in France now, so church services are Catholic. Emma would roll her eyes right back – it’s not because it was a Catholic service. Though she was raised Protestant and has kept with that religion more so as an act of defiance than one of spiritual conviction, she has never been overly religious. When your parents die when you are only weeks old and you spend your life on the run, it’s hard to believe there’s someone up there looking out for you.

So no, it’s not because it was Catholic, but because all the nobles and priests there always look askance at her, questioning what _she_ , the Protestant queen, is doing in a Catholic cathedral.  Doesn’t help that the cardinal acted like she didn’t even exist at the ceremony, and his dismissive attitude is carrying onto this evening’s dinner.

“It is most important for the dauphin to get early exposure to the ways of kingship,” Gold says, making Emma feel a rush of annoyance – this nonsense again? “Every great king has had an early education that leads him onto becoming a strong and powerful ruler.”

“Hmm,” Emma says, before she can stop herself, “I seem to remember that the king himself did not start studying ‘the ways of kingship’ until he was already a grown man.”

All eyes slide to her. Emma just smiles serenely at Gold, ignoring the sideways looks and Neal’s darkening expression in her periphery. She already knows she’ll be lectured about this, so she leans forward again, regarding Gold with a purposefully blank expression, acting the fool he wishes she was.

“Surely you aren’t suggesting the king is not a great man?”

Gold levels her with cold, severe eyes, looking more like a servant of the devil than God. “I believe it was you, Your Majesty, who said that.”

Emma opens her mouth, still smiling but ready to rip Gold a new one for trying to turn this back on her, but Neal interrupts her before she has the chance, a hand raised for silence.

“Alright, alright. Today has been a long day for all of us. We’re all tired and exhausted.” He looks to Emma, and though his smile remains kind, his eyes are hard, the loving husband mask not reaching that far. “Emma, dear, why don’t you retire for the night? You’re tired.”

Emma glares at him, furious that he’s speaking for her in front of all of these people. But there’s nothing for her to do now, not with the clear dismissal ringing in the room, not when she’ll only get herself into more trouble if she doesn’t do as she’s told. Emma’s not one to back away from trouble, but today, with the slight at the cathedral already and now everyone’s raised eyebrows, the fight goes out of her like a gust of wind.

(Most of the time, Emma just resents being married, but it’s times like these when she _hates_ it.)

“Fine,” she says, rising in a fluid motion, her chair scraping loudly through the high-ceilinged hall. The ministers and advisors stand automatically, Emma noting the slow way Cardinal Gold rises. That does absolutely _nothing_ to quell her urge to scream in anger, and she grits her teeth together.

“Goodnight, gentlemen.”

Her steps echo as she marches towards the doors, and the conversation behind her picks up as if she never interrupted it. Outside, Emma has to take a deep breath to calm herself down, before marching off down the hall to the east. She’s headed towards her quarters, though she has no intention of retiring for the night. The urge to fight may have fled, but she’s still too angry to even think about sleeping right now.

As she rounds the corner, out into the main receiving hall of the Louvre, she skids to a stop. Three blue-cloaked Musketeers are standing at the other end of the shadowed chamber, talking quietly amongst themselves. The king had dismissed them from the dining hall earlier, allowing the cardinal’s Red Guards to take over their usual positions. That was another thing that had put her in a bad mood, having been looking forward to seeing them. She assumed they left after that, but here they are.

One of them, Will Scarlet, notices Emma first, and he immediately straightens, hitting his fellows in the arms. They turn, Emma recognizing them as Lancelot du Lac and, to her delight, Killian Jones. A thrill rushes through her as she locks gazes with Killian’s blue eyes, and Emma knows what she can do instead of going to bed.

“Sir Jones,” she says, striding up to the group. “Will you accompany me on a walk in the garden?”

He’s surprised, obviously, but he nods and smiles. “Of course.”

Emma smiles at the other two, who bow as she passes, leading Killian towards the outer doors that lead out onto the spacious grounds behind the palace.

The quiet terrace is quite the change from the tense conversation and her own frustration, and the chilly air cools her heated temper as it washes over her flushed skin. It’s deserted out here, save for a few palace guards who take in their presence with a salute and bow before returning to surveying the grounds. A few narrow their eyes at Killian – trying to assess who Emma has left the dinner with – but his blue Musketeer cape must convince them he’s not an enemy here to spirit the queen away, and those gazes fall away too. 

Even though the cool air is certainly having an effect on her, Emma’s still angry and too aware of their presence. After a day spent with eyes watching and judging her every move, Emma craves a momentary reprieve of privacy. She gathers her heavy skirts in her hand, starting down the stone steps that lead onto the wide lawn and gestures for Killian to follow her.

Someone lit lanterns along the winding pathway down to the garden, and Emma’s thankful for their warm glow; the grounds would be nearly impossible to traverse in the night, even with a bright moon overhead, and with her mood as it is now, she’d attempt it anyways and probably break an ankle.

As they come up the path, shoes crunching on the loose rocks and gravel, the budding garden comes into sight. It’s just beginning to bloom, and with the clear moonlight and amber lantern light, the numerous bright tulips, sunny daffodils, mauve gourdons, and irises are all lit in a strange mix of a warm and eerie glow.

But Emma doesn’t stop to smell the roses; she continues onwards, down towards the small lake and the fenced-off area on the western grounds. Flowers are nice and all, but she needs something different to calm her down right now. Killian follows her dutifully, but she can sense his confusion as to why she’s bypassed the garden entirely.

“I have something prettier than flowers to show you,” she says, as way of explanation. “Come on.”

Emma leads him to a small enclosure on the west side of the grounds, down near the small pond, to where a flock of a dozen or so beautiful white swans are slumbering peacefully, their white feathers bright in the moonlight.

“Swans?” Killian says as they come to a stop in front of the fence, and he gives her a wry smile. “I see where you got your symbol from, Your Majesty.”

She smiles back, playing with the ring on her finger that is indeed emblazoned with a swan, her crest as queen.

“When I had to choose a symbol, there was no question about what it would be. Swans are like a little piece of home, always with me. They are the symbol of Denmark,” she adds, at Killian’s questioning eyebrow.

He tilts his head curiously at her, the moonlight hitting his blue eyes and somehow making them even bluer.

“Do you miss it?” he asks softly. “Denmark?”

Emma pauses, and blinks as the realization hits her, banishing the rest of her anger in a fell swoop, replaced almost instantly by a cool, bittersweet sadness – no one has ever asked her that before.

It’s assumed that a foreign bride, upon arriving in her new country, forgets everything and everyone she’s left behind. Her husband’s country is hers now too, as if she never lived a life before marrying him, as if anything beforehand is irrelevant and pointless to her new life.

No one asks, because no one ever thinks about it. But of course Killian would ask. He’s not French, and though his home seems to have been more the decks of a ship than the streets of an English city, he’s still an outsider, still a foreigner. Like her. 

And, _God_ , does she miss Denmark.

She misses her guardian, the stern queen who never gave up and who battled for years for her rightful throne. She misses her ‘cousins’ (as they called each other), who she spent every hour of every day with for sixteen years. She misses the guards and soldiers, who protected her in the dark times and who even taught her a few of their fighting moves so she could protect herself. She even misses her strict governess, who nearly made her dissolve into tears on a weekly basis during the preparations for her move to France.

“Yes,” she says, and she doesn’t even try to disguise the sadness in her voice. “Mostly the people. My guardian, and her nieces, and the guards and servants. They were the closest thing I ever had to family there.”

Killian is quiet in response, eyes serious and intense, and Emma looks back to the sleeping swans. One of them shifts, stretching and ruffling its feathers, and Emma remembers a time when she and Henry had sat out here for hours in the warm sunshine, watching the swans play around in the pond. Henry had found it hilarious when one of the swans did something similar to this sleepy one, resulting in a nearby swan getting totally drenched with water, and Emma can still see how his little face lit up with glee. 

Of all the things she misses of Denmark, she would not give up the most important person that coming to France has brought her.

“But here I have Henry. He’s my family now.”

She leaves out Neal, and if Killian notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles and says genuinely, “The dauphin is lucky to have you.”

Emma smiles back, warmed by the sentiment. She knows she’s a good mother to Henry, but with men like the cardinal always whispering that she _isn’t_ , that a Protestant mother is not a good influence on a future Catholic king, it’s nice to hear it from someone else.

Especially considering the events of tonight’s dinner.

It’s then, standing in the garden with only the swans beside them for company, Emma realizes how truly alone they are out here. She could reach out and grasp his hands again, pull him closer and set them on her waist again like at the dance.

Almost at the same moment, Emma realizes just how unwise it was to venture out into a darkened garden with Killian Jones, when her emotions are already a mess, when his presence seems to be one of the only things that makes her feel better and calmer. Though Emma’s done a lot of stupid things in her life, she doesn’t intend to add anything to that list tonight, and she turns away from Killian and the swans.

“We best return. It’s getting late.”

He nods, and they walk back to the palace in silence. Emma lifts her skirts as they approach the stairs, and as if on instinct, Killian reaches out a hand to assist her. And though Emma would normally ignore an outstretched arm on principle, she accepts it, and doesn’t remove her hand when they reach the top of the steps. It’s only when they return to the foyer, to where the other two Musketeers are still waiting, that Emma releases Killian.

“Thank you, Sir Jones,” Emma says, allowing formality to leak back into her tone. Killian senses the change and he bows slightly. She turns to the other Musketeers, and says, “You can all return to your barracks. It’s been a long day.”

They murmur a goodbye, and Emma watches them leave, Lancelot leading the other two out of the room. Killian is the last to leave and, to her surprise, the moment before he disappears through the arched doorway, he looks back, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

Emma smiles back. “Good night.”

<> 

Once the Musketeers have returned to their barracks, Lancelot and Will fall asleep almost instantly. The day has been a whirlwind, first with the coronation Mass and then the dinner. Though they had been dismissed from the dinner, Killian is entirely grateful Lancelot suggested they stick around for a bit, to ensure everything went well and that they really weren’t needed.

Though his bunkmates are already snoring away, drained and exhausted, sleep has never felt so far away to Killian as he lies on his tiny bed. He stares up at the old wooden ceiling, seeing instead the misty garden, feeling the soft fabric of the queen’s dress instead of the coarse blanket, her soft hand in his.  

His thoughts are starting to wander in a dangerous direction and he lets out a huffed sigh, rolling over and punching his pillow; he already knows what his dreams are going to be like tonight.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful (he would have to be blind to not see that), but he sees a bit of himself in her too. The other Musketeers are all French to the core, and though they never intentionally make Killian feel like an outsider, it was surprising how much he missed talking to someone else who wasn’t French. They’re both foreigners here, he and the queen.

He thinks of the swans that the queen loves so much, how she had tried to bring a bit of her home with her to France, how her eyes had lit up as she showed them to him. It’s no wonder she loves them, he thinks. They’re beautiful and graceful, but underneath that beauty, there’s a hidden strength and viciousness he sees within the queen too. He saw it already with the king, the day at the hunt, and the other night with Count Walsh. A different sort of viciousness than the violence of swans, but strong and ferocious nonetheless.

When he finally drifts off to sleep, his mind already twisting with dreams of waltzes and moonlit flowers, he can’t help but think that whatever his initial thoughts were about starting to serve the royal family, it was certainly not this and he wouldn’t change it for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the idea of the queen having swans from the English tradition, because it was just too perfect. And swans actually are the symbol of Denmark, which is something I discovered after I'd already made Emma from Denmark in this story. Talk about a coincidence! 
> 
> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternityat http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/165083797508/if-the-stars-align-chapter-3-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, I really appreciate them. It's been a different process for me in having this story totally complete while I upload it, and it's great to get comments on this stuff, as I've been waiting to share it for months at this point.

Once a year, the queen makes a visit to the Bastille, Paris’ infamous jail, to pardon some of the prisoners convicted of lesser crimes. It’s risky business, sending the queen herself to the most dangerous jail in Paris, but it is a long-held tradition and the monarchy is nothing if not traditional. This also shows a softer side of the monarchy, a part of the game to keep the populace content, a game that these days has never been more important with an unpopular war raging on at this very moment.

Killian shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he stands with the other Musketeers in the guards’ courtyard of the Bastille, waiting for the queen’s carriage to arrive. The day is hot, bright and sunny, the sun beating down on the stone courtyard, the heat trapped by the stones and making it feel hotter than it really is. Killian, in his heavy leathers with more weapons than he can count strapped to his body, is already sweating and uncomfortable in the heat.

The Musketeers are all armed to the teeth, in case anyone tries something. Only the pardoned criminals will be out in the courtyard when Emma arrives and though they are only moments away from freedom, Killian doesn’t trust them as far as he can throw them.

He tugs at the fleur-de-lis pauldron on his right shoulder, the marker of his position as a Musketeer. He’s worn it for a long time, but today it seems tighter than normal, digging tightly into his shoulder. The nerves he thought he’d quenched over the past few weeks on the job have returned tenfold. He’s wanting for a swig of rum from the flask in his pocket, a swig of liquid courage, and if the others weren’t right beside him, he’d probably do it. Guarding the queen at the Bastille is different than any hunt or ball or dinner party; this is a prison full of murderers and thieves and frauds where, at any moment, anything could change.

Before he joined the Musketeers, while on the run from the English navy who sought to hang him for desertion, Killian spent some time amongst men like this. Some criminals want to return to a wife or a family after they’ve served their time, but others are vengeful and want to make a name for themselves by going down in a blaze of glory ... and there’s no better blazing path of glory than trying to attack a queen.

The Musketeers did a sweep of the main level of the Bastille that morning, figuring out where the exits and entrances are, how sturdy the locked doors leading to the cells are, how protected Emma will be at all times during her visit. Though Captain Humbert was satisfied with the prison’s protective measures, Killian still feels on edge, his hand already hovering over the hilt of his sword and Emma’s not even here yet.

He must look worse than he feels because Will, the one who usually rolls his eyes at Killian’s nerves, clears his throat beside him.

“Take a breath, mate. It’ll be fine. I was here last year, there were no problems. She’ll be in and out.”

Killian nods, but Will’s reassurances do little for him with his own experiences. But luckily, the sound of a rumbling carriage breaks Killian out of his thoughts, and he snaps to attention as the queen’s carriage pulls into the courtyard. A footman jumps down to open the door and first out is Mary Margaret Whale, the only lady-in-waiting Emma brought with her today, reaching her hand out to help Emma down.

She’s dressed modestly today in a simple lilac gown, her hair tied back in a simple knot at the base of her head, not a jewel in sight. The head bailiff of the Bastille, Descoteaux, steps forward, bowing low as Emma comes to a stop in front of him.

“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, reaching out to kiss her hand. “Welcome. We are honoured to have you here.”

She smiles, but her eyes are quickly sweeping over the courtyard, at the prison guards in their grey uniforms and the Musketeers with their armour and weapons, and it’s only then that she addresses Descoteaux.

“Thank you for the kind welcome. Shall we begin?”

The halls of the Bastille are quiet as Descoteaux leads Emma, Mary Margaret, and the Musketeers to the prisoners’ courtyard. It’s a bit unnerving – Killian would expect nothing but noise and activity at a prison, but the only sound is the _clack_ of their shoes as they make their way through the narrow, dark halls.

In the courtyard, the prisoners to be pardoned have been assembled in a single file line as they await the queen’s arrival. They’re grimy and dirty, chained together by hand and foot, and none of them even look over as Emma and the Musketeers emerge at the top of the stone steps.

Emma’s shoulders tense, her mouth thinning into a line and eyes widening in shock the sight of the prisoners. While Descoteaux prattles on about how the Bastille is such a humane prison ( _the best in all France, I swear it, Your Majesty_ ), Emma’s face darkens. The men, filthy, skinny, miserable, tell a very different story.

Descoteaux leads her down the steps, out to walk by the prisoners, to let them say their thanks to her in person. Killian stiffens – this was his least favourite part of the day’s events, letting her get so close – but Captain Humbert keeps a close step behind her, hand on the sword at his belt. The other Musketeers, including Killian, spread out join the guards already in place, Killian stopping beside the captain of the Bastille guard, a tough man in his mid-fifties called Captain Edmond. The Bastille guards and the Musketeers line the eastern wall of the courtyard, watching the events with sharp eyes and ready to jump in.

Emma walks slowly by the prisoners, taking a moment to talk to each of them as she passes them small pouches of _francs_ to get them started on their freedom. They still don’t look up to her, but a few murmur ‘God save the queen’, ‘bless you, Majesty’ and ‘thank you for the kindness’ as she passes by.

When Emma reaches the end of the line, oblivious to the dark mood in the courtyard, Descoteaux turns her around with a wide grin and he even claps the nearest prisoner on the back, causing him to nearly fall right over.

“Just a few more minutes, gents, then you’ll be free! Come with me, Your Majesty, we’ll sign the papers for the prisoners’ release in my office.”

Emma sends another sad look towards the prisoners as Descoteaux leads her away, Mary Margaret and Captain Humbert following. They disappear back into the building, and the courtyard falls into an uneasy silence. The only sounds are the shuffling feet of guards and prisoners alike, all restless and waiting. The heat of the day is nearly becoming unbearable, and Killian hopes the bailiff doesn’t keep Emma too long.

A door across the yard opens, and a group of prison guards file into the courtyard. A young guard, a man with short brown hair tucked under a cap and an ill-fitting uniform, leads the others out. He’s swinging a ring of keys over a finger, a smug expression on his face, and goosebumps rise on the back of Killian’s neck.

The young man doesn’t say a word. He just strides right up to the prisoners and tosses the keys to one of them, who flinches in surprise and almost drops them.

“Congrats, mate,” he says, as the man looks to him with wide eyes. “Freedom is yours.”

Killian exchanges a glance with Robin beside him; this was not how the release was discussed earlier. Captain Edmond of the Bastille must agree, as he steps forward, hand dropping to the sword at his belt.

“What is the meaning of this, Berger? The prisoners are not to be released yet!”

The young man, Berger, saunters forward, a twisted smirk on his face as the guards he entered with fan out behind him in a uniform line, hands dropping to their pistols and swords at their belts.

“Sorry, captain,” he says, withdrawing a pistol from his belt and cocking it loudly. “I’ve got my orders.”

The shot explodes from the pistol, the ear shattering _crack_ ricocheting around the courtyard and making it infinitely louder. Captain Edmond crumbles, choking out a cry as he falls to his knees, and collapses face first onto the ground.

For a moment, everyone in the yard is frozen, staring at the bleeding body of the captain, at the growing pool of blood around his torso, at the small cloud of dust rising from where his body thudded to the ground.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Gunfire fills the courtyard as the loyal prison guards run towards the betrayers, roaring in anger and crying out for justice. The newly freed prisoners scatter as the guards descend upon each other, some running towards the gates, while others decide they want a piece of the action too, charging into the fray with no weapons other than their fists.

The Musketeers draw their swords in unison, Killian grabbing his pistol and readying it to fire with his other hand. But before he gets the chance, rough fingers grab the back of his collar, pulling him back so roughly he almost drops his pistol. He whirls, fury on his lips and fists ready to attack, but it’s not a prisoner or a rogue guard – it’s Captain Humbert.

“Protect the queen!” he orders, shoving Killian towards the doorway Emma, Mary Margaret, and the bailiff had disappeared into. “Get her to the carriage and out of here!”

Killian whirls around, darting towards the entrance to the prison. A musket ball comes dangerously close to his head as he weaves a zigzag path to the building, the ball scraping his ear. He ducks, too late, and when he presses a hand up to his ear, his glove comes away spotted with blood.

But there’s no time to focus on that, not when he sees, to his horror, three figures appear in the doorway. Emma, Mary Margaret, and Descoteaux are staring open-mouthed at the chaos, at the screaming, at the freed prisoners, at the echoing shots of musket fire and clanging of swords that until a minute ago was not present.

Emma is the first to snap out of it, eyes focusing on Killian as he approaches. She opens her mouth to speak, but Killian simply grabs her arm and pulls her back into the building and back behind the safety of the stone walls. She gets a hold on the arm of Mary Margaret, pulling her along too, and Mary Margaret shoves herself beside the queen in a protective stance.

The bailiff is not so lucky. There is another deafening musket shot, reverberating through the small hallway and echoing tenfold in Killian’s head, and then the heavy thud of Descoteaux’s body falling back into the building. He is dead before he hits the ground, blood pooling from the wound in his chest and staining his fine linen shirt, eyes staring up to the ceiling and wide from shock.

Mary Margaret gasps, and Emma’s jaw drops open. “Oh my –”

“Nothing to be done for him now,” Killian interrupts grimly, shifting to push the ladies further behind him and peering out the doorway. There is an approaching guard, one of the ones who entered the courtyard with the rogue leader, brandishing a bloody sword with a twisted, manic smile. Killian aims his pistol and fires a shot. It hits true, the man having no chance to even cry out in pain as he crumbles, the bullet ripping its way right through him.

Killian leans out again, peering through the smoke, reloading, when another figure appears in the doorway. Killian nearly hits him over the head with the unloaded pistol before he realizes it’s not another thug – it’s David, bloody and sweaty, and Killian drops his weapon, swearing.

“Do _not_ sneak up on me, David! I could have shot you!”

David completely ignores him, eyes focusing on Mary Margaret and the queen, and he steps further in, shoving Killian to the side.

“Are you alright?”

Both ladies nod, and Emma demands, “What’s going on? Who are those men?”

She makes a move as if to look out the doorway, but the stone wall behind them explodes, spraying bits of chipped rock as another musket shot finds its way through the doorway, and Killian automatically pulls her back to safety. As the dust settles around them, David clears his throat, a tough and determined edge to his eyes, the look of a leader.

“Killian, take the queen to the other exit through the west wing. It’s the quickest route out of here. I’ll take Mary Margaret through the south passage. Best to split up, and confuse them. We’ll meet back in the guard’s courtyard on the south side, okay?”

And without another word, he is whisking Mary Margaret down the hall to the left, and Killian moves into action as well. The doorway is clear (the battle is in full force in the courtyard; he sees Captain Humbert, Will, Lancelot, and Robin engaged in swift sword fights with the rogue guards, and more loyal guards are just now swarming from the upper levels to join the fight) and gestures for Emma to step ahead of him, down the narrow hallway.  

“This way if you please, Your Majesty.”

David has sent them down the jailers’ hallway, and the guards are spilling from their offices like flies. Thankfully, they all appear to be loyalists and no one makes a motion to stop him or Emma as they fly though the corridor at break-neck speed.

As they run, seeing the offices empty, Killian considers barricading themselves into one of them, but there is a sudden yell from behind him of “The queen! This way!” that ruins that plan completely.

He quickens his pace, grabbing Emma’s hand to push her ahead of him slightly. He’s hoping that the guards who just fled their offices are able to hold off the thugs. That hope is short-lived; there is a deafening gun shot and the wall in front of him explodes as a bullet narrowly misses Emma’s shoulder. She screams, ducking as wood splinters and plaster rains over her, and Killian turns over his shoulder, firing off a shot into a group of three thugs.

It hits the man in the centre, and he drops like a rock. The other two yell in anger as they get tangled up with him, resulting in all three of them crumbled in a heap.

Killian and Emma keep running, the sounds of the furious thugs catching up to them far too quickly. Killian is starting to wonder how the hell they’re going to make it all the way to the other side of the building when he spots a small alcove ahead.

It’s risky coming to a stop, but he can hear the roars of fury and boot stomps getting closer behind them, and it’s the best option they have now.

The alcove is tucked into a corner, draped in shadows by the way its situated, and he heads immediately for it. Emma is bewildered as he pulls her so sharply in a different direction, but her expression soon clears when she sees the alcove and she steps ahead of him into the shadows. Killian sweeps her heavy skirts out of the way as he slides in in front of her, trying to press both of them as far back into the darkness as he can.

There’s not much room in the alcove, though, and he has to twist so they’re face-to-face, so close Killian can feel her breath on his face. He wraps an arm around her, tucking her further into the shadows, and Emma grips his arms tightly as the clatter of footsteps come even closer now.

The men’s voices become clearer too, and Killian hears distinctly the words ‘the queen’ and ‘this way.’ Emma’s nails dig into his bicep through all the leather he’s wearing, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake, but Killian tightens his own hold around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

They’re both holding their breath now as the two men, bloody and furious, come around the corner. But neither man even glances towards the alcove, hidden as it is in the corner. They continue down the hallway, and it’s not until they’re gone from sight and their footsteps have faded from earshot that either Killian or Emma breathe again.

“Come on,” Killian whispers, tugging Emma out of the alcove. “We need to move.”

But she grabs his arm before he gets too far, twisting him to face her again. To his surprise, her hand reaches up to his face, fingers brushing across his cheek and as her fingers probe at his skin, he flinches in pain. In all the chaos, he forgot all about the bullet that grazed him outside.

“What happened to you? Is it serious?”

He shakes his head, and reaches up to cover her hand with his own. “Just a scratch, love. Now, come on, let’s go.”

Though the two thugs who were after them are gone, Killian is still cautious, listening for any sound, but they appear to have gone a different route. He and Emma keep on their route out of the prison, and finally reach the south courtyard, to where Emma’s carriage is ready and awaiting.

The footmen have been alerted to the calamity, horses already pawing at the ground in eagerness to depart. The dark-haired figure of Mary Margaret is already inside the carriage, and Killian spots David a few feet away, guarding it with his pistol out and ready to fire.

Both light up with relief as Killian and Emma appear in the doorway, and Killian pushes Emma forward towards the carriage. She goes, but has only managed to make it halfway out into the dusty courtyard before David’s expression drops.

“Behind you!”

The rogue guard, Berger, who led the charge of the mutinous guards, is standing in the doorway that Killian and Emma just exited from, raising his pistol and aiming right for Emma, the gun already cocked.

Killian doesn’t have the time to think. He sprints to Emma, grabbing her around the waist and tackling her to the ground, one hand reaching around her to help with the fall, the other pulling her closer to him as they hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Emma is winded, gasping as all the breath is forced from her lungs as she lands heavily on her back, but it’s not a moment too soon. A loud shot explodes from behind them, the sound deafening, and Killian knows without a doubt it would have struck Emma if she’d been standing.

Before the smoke has even drifted away, Killian starts to twist off Emma, determined to get to his feet to shoot back at the man. But another pistol fires, and Emma grabs him, gripping the lapels of his collar tightly, and pulls him back down.

Ahead of them, David drops his still-smoking gun and draws his sword. Berger lets out a barking laugh, throwing his own musket to the side, and striding forward, drawing his own sword.

“You’re not even a Musketeer,” he sneers, gesturing to David’s shoulder and the lack of the fleur-de-lis pauldron. “You think you can best me?”

David doesn’t answer, eyes focused as he flicks his sword around his wrist in a single fluid motion as he approaches Berger, the two men starting to circle each other.

Killian feels rather useless, just lying there on the ground, but Emma’s grip on him is strong, and besides – this is David’s fight. His face is taut with determination, the sword in his hand steady, and though he’s not a Musketeer, his abilities surely are. 

Berger makes the first move, lashing out with a ferocious swing. David parries, their metal swords screeching at the contact. He pushes forward, forcing Berger a step backwards. They swing out at each other again, countering and feinting and blocking and dodging across the courtyard.

As their fight intensifies, swinging and thrashing, Berger’s smug expression disappears, replaced with a flicker of surprise and alarm. He drops all pretense of playing fair, and swings his fist out, smacking David on the side of his face.

Killian and Emma both inhale a sharp breath as his head snaps back, blood spraying from his mouth. Killian is ready to jump up and pummel Berger, but David is already looking back to him, wiping the blood away with a furious glare. The swordfight resumes, more ferocious than ever, and Killian knows without a doubt that only one man will emerge alive from this.

And luck must be on David’s side, for Berger makes a mistake; he feints left, expecting David to follow him, but Killian recognizes the move as one that the Musketeers were working on yesterday at the barracks with the younger recruits, and David doesn’t fall for it. With a grim flash of victory in his eyes, he steps forward, thrusting his sword upwards and right into the Berger’s stomach.

Berger screams, a horrible sound that makes Killian’s skin crawl and his stomach turn. Under him, Emma tenses, pressing her face into his shoulder and tightening her grip on his collar, and he hears her mutter a curse.

David pulls his sword free from Berger with almost a worse sound than his scream, and the man stumbles away from David, pressing his hands to his stomach. Killian can’t see the extent of the damage from his angle, but the man’s bloodied hands and unsteady gait tell him exactly who has won this fight. Berger collapses onto the ground, with a gurgled cry and the last spark of life is gone before he’s hit the ground.

As the dust rises from around Berger’s body, an unnerving silence settles over the courtyard. Killian finally lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, and he shifts enough to glance down to Emma.

She’s squeezed her eyes shut, and Killian brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

“It’s okay. It’s over.”

She opens her eyes, and seeks out his own instantly, her eyes so wide in fear nearly all of the green replaced with black. He pushes aside more of her errant hair with a reassuring smile and she finally relaxes, releasing her hands from his collar and dropping her head back onto the dirt with a sigh of relief. Killian takes that as his cue to stand up, and he pushes himself off her, offering her a hand to stand too which she accepts. Her gown is completely covered in dirt from the courtyard and ripped from where Killian stood on it when he tackled her.

She doesn’t let go of him when she’s standing, opening her mouth to say something, but Mary Margaret appears then. She grabs onto Emma, pulling her hands free from Killian’s, and wraps her in a tight embrace, half in sobs already.

Killian turns away, giving them a moment, and strides over to David. He’s staring at the dead body of the man, his face pale and grim.

“Good job, mate,” Killian says, clapping him on the shoulder.” You saved us. You saved the queen.”

David smiles grimly, and shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here,” he says, marching over to the carriage, picking up his discarded pistol and opening the carriage door. “Before I have to kill anyone else.”

Emma and Mary Margaret return to the carriage now, the footmen ushering them quickly in. When they’re safely inside, the carriage peels through the open gates, the horses galloping footsteps raising dust and dirt from the cobblestones. David and Killian mount their own horses, and ride out furiously after it.

And in everyone’s haste to get away from the Bastille, minds totally focused on the safe return to the Louvre, away from the violence and bloodshed, no one notices the woman watching their departure from a shadowed corner across the street, an angry flash in her eyes as the carriage escapes the Bastille, its royal occupant unharmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/165365696243/if-the-stars-align-chapter-4-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter V

It had taken several hours to get the situation at the Bastille under control. After making sure Emma was safe at the Louvre, escorted by palace guards to the court physician to check for any injuries even against her protests that she was fine, Killian and David returned to help out the others. City guards were there too by the time they had arrived, aiding the Bastille guards and the Musketeers, but it had still taken a long time for the situation to settle. Somehow, some of the prisoners had been let out of their cells too, and it took a long time to round them all back up, with some still on the loose and nowhere to be found. All the deserting guards (those still alive, at least) were arrested for treason, housed in the very prison cells they had once guarded.

By the time everything was said and done, it was late in the day and all the Musketeers were exhausted. Captain Humbert had visited the Louvre to update the king on what had happened, but the next day, all of the Musketeers were summoned for a meeting.

Captain Humbert leads them to the palace, and worried rumours and whispered theories trail their steps all the way to the palace, the news of the attack having circulated around Paris overnight.

“I heard the Queen was the one to shoot the ringleader!”

“Those guards deserve to hang alongside the other murderers in that place!”

“If even the Bastille guards aren’t happy with the monarchy ...”

Killian barely focuses on the hum around him. He was exhausted from the harrowing day, and his sleep last night was anything but peaceful. His dreams were wild, twisted reinterpretations of the day, mostly centered around scenarios where he hadn’t been quick enough to get Emma out of the line of fire. In that particular nightmare, her pretty lilac dress had been stained with crimson blood instead of dust, her beautiful face slack and unmoving, her body growing cold as he shook her over and over again, calling out her name.   

After waking up in a cold sweat, her name still on his lips, Killian had abandoned any notion of getting more sleep. He’d retreated out into the cool night air, leaning out on the railing of the barracks and staring up at the bright, starry sky.

Killian was a child afraid of the dark, and when there were no lanterns or candles to light, he’d retreat to the deck of the ship where the stars sprinkled overhead. He’d kept up the habit in his days in the Navy when sleep evaded him, and though moving to land has many differences than life at sea, one thing has remained constant – the stars and their constellations.

Last night, tormented by his nightmare, his eyes had sought out one constellation in particular. _Cygnus,_ the elegant swan, was taking flight amongst the sea of stars in the eastern sky. He’d learned the constellations as a child, knew them all as well as the back of his hand, and somehow, watching the swan fly through the sky had calmed him enough so that when he had returned to the bunk, he managed to get a few hours of peaceful, dreamless sleep.

But now, walking through the whispery streets of Paris, Emma’s name following him to the Louvre like a whisper on the wind, just thinking about his dreams brings back the images again. He’s thankful they’re going to the palace, if only for a chance to glimpse Emma and reassure his restless mind she is fine.

Behind him, Captain Humbert and the others are in deep discussion about what they’re going to tell the king in their briefing. Captain Humbert told them that last night he was furious, ready to send all the Bastille guards to the noose even if they had been loyal, he felt so betrayed by the actions of a few. Captain Humbert managed to calm him down enough so that option was off the table, but Killian wonders what developments there will be today.

When they arrive at the Louvre, a page ushers the Musketeers quickly into one of the throne rooms in the west wing. It’s still early in the morning, the pale sunlight lighting the room in a subdued, quiet glow, but the room is full of people already.

The queen’s ladies-in-waiting are clustered around her throne and blocking Killian’s view, but they part as the Musketeers file in. The king’s throne is empty, and as the ladies move out of the way, Killian sees Emma seated in hers. Except for a small scrape on her left cheek and a scratch on her arm, Emma is unscathed from yesterday, and a swell of relief rushes over Killian.

 _Just dreams after all_.

The Musketeers bow as they stop in front of the thrones. Emma rises to her feet, gesturing them all back to standing. Her face is grim, an edge of barely concealed anger to it, but her smile to them is warm and genuine.

“I wanted to thank you all before the king arrives. Your bravery and loyalty in the face of such danger at the Bastille yesterday is truly without equal. I would not be here without all of you.”

They murmur that they were simply doing their duty, but her sincere acknowledgement touches Killian. It is a rare thing to hear praise from the king and while Killian doesn’t do his duty for a simple word of thanks, it is still a reward to hear it from the queen’s lips.

Across the hall, the wide doors swing open, and the king and his retinue stride into the room. They all bow again, and the king drops into his throne without a word of greeting, waving them all back to standing. The cardinal, who slips in quietly a step behind the king, pauses behind the king’s throne, depositing a cold glare at the Musketeers as he does.

For some reason, Killian’s hackles rise at the expression on the man’s face. He knows the cardinal’s dislike of the Musketeers as well as anyone, but this ... this coldness looks a lot more like hatred.

“Any news on the traitors?” the king demands, and Killian looks away from Gold. “Their names? The motives?”

Captain Humbert steps forward. “The leader was named Antoine Berger, a young man from Chartres who’d been in Paris for a few years and a guard at the Bastille for the past year. He had a few other collaborators, but they were all killed during the fight. The ones we arrested weren’t party to the planning, and they stated that it was all Berger and his followers’ idea.”

“And what was this idea? Why did he do this, the very day the queen was there?”

“They said he believed they were not receiving fair treatment from Captain Edmond, and the perfect opportunity to bring attention to this issue was when Her Majesty was present, as it would force his hand. But they said the plan was never to hurt anyone, that they just wanted to talk.”

“Well, that’s clearly a lie,” the king snarls. “They killed their captain and the bailiff in cold blood, and then tried to murder the queen!” He takes a hard breath, his words echoing in the large hall around them, and shakes his head in disgust. “Where are they now?”

“They are still at the Bastille. Awaiting trial.”

The king looks over to Gold then, the two of them exchanging a dark look, and goosebumps rise on Killian’s neck as Cardinal Gold nods encouragingly.

The king’s eyes are hard and cold as he looks back to Captain Humbert. “No trials. Hang them tomorrow at dawn. Publicly. Let the rest of France know what happens when you dare betray me.”

As his harsh words settle around them, Killian gapes back at the king, the room falling into a stunned silence.

 _No trials_?

Even amongst the worst of the merchant ships he’d served on, there’d been a semblance of fair trials for men accused of stealing or attempting mutiny or any other crimes. Killian himself, the lowly orphaned cabin boy, had a right to have a say in his own defence when the time arose.

To have no trial at all ...

He glances away from the king, trying to keep his face composed, and looks to Emma seated in her throne. She is gripping the arms of the chair tightly, her expression angry but not surprised. Her ladies behind her are exchanging dark looks, and Killian gets the distinct impression there had been an argument about this before the Musketeers arrived.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Humbert says after a moment, looking taken aback. “It is every man’s right –”

 The king interrupts him with a wave of his hand, and snaps, “This is not open for debate. I’ll expect you to see to the executions personally, Captain. Is that understood?”

With the look on Captain Humbert’s face, Killian almost expects him to refuse, but with the king’s pointed stare and the cardinal’s expectant eyes, he finally nods, his jaw tight.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Wonderful,” the king says, and he gets to his feet. “Now Cardinal, about that report –”

“Wait,” Emma says loudly, rising from her throne. Neal turns back, startled that she interrupted him, but after a tense moment of the two of them staring at each other, he gestures for her to continue.

“I know you did not mean to overlook the good work the Musketeers did yesterday, but I believe this most recent show of bravery deserves more than just verbal praise.”

She steps down from her throne, and comes to a stop directly in front of David, who straightens and inclines his head to her.

Emma smiles warmly, and continues, “David Nolan was a remarkable hero yesterday. Without his courage and commitment to duty, the outcome would have been very different. It is my understanding that he has been serving as an unofficial Musketeer for several months now. I believe it’s time we made it official.”

She glances back to the king, raising a pointed eyebrow. He stares at her for a moment, but then smiles, all traces of his earlier coldness gone with a warm crinkle around his eyes.

“You are completely correct, my dear. Loyalty to the crown is the most important virtue of a Musketeer and Nolan has proved himself as a noble soldier and honourable protector of France.”

He gestures David forward, and he does so, looking unsure and bewildered. Behind the queen, Mary Margaret Whale is beaming, a wide smile lighting up her entire face, and the king pulls out a decorative sword from his hip.

“Kneel.”

David obeys, bowing his head as the king faces him.

“I hereby formally commission you,” he says, dropping the sword onto David’s left shoulder and raising it over his head onto other shoulder, “into my regiment of Musketeers.”

David breaks into a smile, and the king smiles back. He turns away, already calling out for Gold again, and the other Musketeers crowd around David immediately, slapping him on the back and offering words of congratulations.

“You deserve it, mate.”

“I think you’ve beaten a record for quickest promotion!”

“He still has to muck the stables, right?”

They all laugh at Will, who looks genuinely concerned. The others keep congratulating David, and Killian glances over his shoulder and catches Emma’s eye. She is smiling, genuinely and brightly, and Killian feels a rush of affection flood through him. She didn’t have to do that for David. He could have languished as an unofficial Musketeer for years, as many others do, but to be promoted, to be given the title of Musketeer and entrusted the loyalty and honour that comes with it, he knows how much that means to David.

“Sir Nolan,” the king calls out then, and all the Musketeers snap to attention, their conversation halted. David steps forward, bowing slightly, and the king gestures him forward. “The Cardinal is creating a formal report about what happened at the Bastille and you can help him by giving your account. Follow me. Captain Humbert, you as well.”

David, nearly glowing with pride, follows the king and the cardinal out of the hall, accompanied by Captain Humbert. Killian remains with Will, Robin, and Lancelot in the hall as the queen returns to her throne. He wishes he could pull her aside, to thank her for what she did for David, but there’s no way, not with the way her ladies are now crowding around her.

“Well, I better go get Nolan a pauldron,” Lancelot says, sighing and sending Will a pointed look. “Last Musketeer whined about not having his the moment that sword left his shoulder.”

“Oi,” Will protests. “It’s our _symbol_ , mate. You aren’t a real Musketeer without it. Plus,” he adds, with a wink and a nudge to Killian’s ribs, “you get way more free drinks with it on than without it.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all with it on,” Lancelot reprimands coolly, crossing his arms.

Will suddenly looks very interested in the bust of a former First Minister across the hall, and Killian and Robin exchange an amused glance as Lancelot just sighs again.  

“Sir Jones, Sir Scarlet,” Emma calls out, and the Musketeers turn to look. All of her ladies are gone, save Mary Margaret. “Will you accompany me back to my quarters?”

Will steps forward immediately, clearly pleased to have an excuse not to leave with Lancelot, and Killian follows him. Mary Margaret steps ahead with Will, asking him all about what David’s new duties will be, and Killian drops into step beside Emma.

Her steps are slower today than usual, and as Mary Margaret and Will disappear around the corner ahead, Killian wonders if she’s being deliberately leisurely to give them some privacy. As soon as the thought hits him, he gets a better look at her; there are dark circles under her eyes, her skin is paler than it was yesterday, and he wonders if perhaps her slow stride has more to do with exhaustion than anything else.

“Are you feeling alright, Your Majesty?”

“I’m tired,” Emma replies honestly. “The king and I argued about the soldiers late into the night.”

Killian stiffens, the reminder of the harsh punishment the king ordered slamming into his mind, washing away all happy thoughts of David’s new position.

_No trials._

“It’s the cardinal’s idea,” Emma continues sourly. “Neal was just going to jail them at first. But once Gold suggested it, there was no convincing him otherwise. I tried to beg him to show mercy, but his mind was made up.” She sighs, and rubs at her eyes, the next words spilling out of her as if she can’t stop. “And then afterwards, I had terrible dreams and hardly slept. The last time ... the last time something like the Bastille attack happened, I was still in Denmark. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think about those times, and now I can’t stop thinking about it, even when I sleep.”

With his own night full of nightmares, Killian feels a rush of companionship with Emma.

“I did too,” he admits. “Have terrible dreams, I mean.”

“You did?” Emma tilts her head curiously at him. “About the Bastille?”

He nods, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and brushes the skin below the scrape on Emma’s cheek, her skin cool and smooth under his thumb. “That things had ended differently.”

He quickly withdraws his hand, feeling foolish and forward. He isn’t sure what came over him, where the mad urge to touch her, to reassure himself that she is truly safe, came from, but it isn’t appropriate, not when he’s a soldier and she’s the queen. He’s thankful no one else is around, if only so he doesn’t end up losing his hand as a result of touching her.

But Emma doesn’t seem to mind, and she reaches up to touch his own cheek, to the still fresh wound near his left ear.

“I dreamt of that too.”

She pulls her hand away, and they walk in silence for a few moments. Though he feels like a fool for daring to touch her, to letting his emotions and desires get the best of him, her admission that she dreamt of the Bastille too takes him aback. He’s so enraptured in his thoughts that when Emma speaks again, he completely misses the content of her sentence.

“Pardon me?”

Her lips twist into a smirk, as if she can read his thoughts. “I asked what you do when you have nightmares.”

“Oh.” He pauses, considering. “I usually look out at the stars. It’s what I did when I was younger.” He pauses again, unsure to share or not that last night he sought comfort with the swan constellation, but decides that if he’s going to think himself a fool for the rest of the day, he might as well go all out. “Last night, I was looking out at Cygnus.”

She glances to him sharply, her expression suddenly unreadable. “Cygnus? The swan?”

He nods, watching carefully for her reaction. She’s just watching him with guarded eyes, and it’s almost like he can see the thoughts in her head churning, trying to decipher him and what he means by saying that. He wonders if he’s somehow upset her, and he quickly tries to backpedal.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he starts, but Emma shakes her head.

“No, you didn’t. I was just thinking ...” She pauses again, chewing on her bottom lip. She seems at war with herself, until she straightens her back, her expression shifting, and she takes a step closer to him. “You have Cygnus to look for when you’re worried about me but I don’t have anything to look for when I worry about you.”

For a moment, his mind runs blank and Killian wonders if he’s misheard her. Her – worried about _him_?

But she’s watching him expectantly, an almost shy, vulnerability in her eyes now, and whatever worries he had about upsetting her fly out of his head.

“You don’t have to worry about me, love. I’m a survivor.”

She smiles, and though this is starting to seem like dangerous territory, rough seas that he knows he’ll do nothing but drown in, Killian wouldn’t stop it for a moment.

“But, if you ever do worry, you can look for Polaris, the Northern Star. Sailors use it for navigation and as a marker of true north. All you have to do is trace the edges of Ursa Major and you’ll find it, the brightest star in the sky.”

Emma smiles again, that warm smile that he received that first day at the hunt. “The brightest star? How fitting.”

He rather thinks that it would fit her better then, the brightest star of them all, but he just smiles. She’ll be the swan, and he’ll be the sailor’s navigator.

They walk in silence for a few moments, both lost in their thoughts in the meaning of their last words, before Killian speaks again.

“I wanted to thank you. For what you did for David. I know how much that means to him.”

“It was the least I could do. With all those who will die tomorrow, I had to make sure there was some good that comes from such tragedy. To make David’s bravery and courage count for something.”

She reaches into the folds of her dress, and withdraws a small bundle of purple velvet. “That reminds me. I have something for you. I wasn’t sure if I should ...” She trails off, frowning, and looking at war with herself again, but then she shakes her head and holds the bag out to him. “David got his reward, but you deserve one too.”

“Oh,” Killian says, staring at the bag as reality slams back into him. “I don’t need anything. I was just doing my duty.”

“Well,” she replies, with a coy smile. “Think of it as a mark of my affection then, or something you can look at when the stars are absent.”

She presses the package into Killian’s palm, stepping away before he can refuse it or say _thank you_. He’s a step behind her, having been stunned for a moment, and ahead, Will and Mary Margaret are stopped outside the doors to Emma’s private quarters, talking about (of all things) what the meals are like at the barracks. They stop when Emma and Killian join them, Will looking only too relieved to step away.

They say goodbye to each other, and Will returns to Killian’s side, muttering under his breath, “That Madame Whale sure knows how to talk. Come on, let’s go help Lancelot with David’s pauldron before Lancelot decides he can have mine instead.”

Will takes off down the corridor, but Killian pauses before following him, the small package like a burning flame in his hand, his attention unable to move away from it. He undoes the drawstrings on the pouch, and a heavy silver chain necklace with a sword charm slides out into his palm as he turns it over.

The sword charm glitters when it catches the sunlight coming in from the window, the sword jewelled along the hilt with diamonds, the pommel encrusted with small rubies. He turns it over, and his heart nearly drops out of his chest – engraved on the back of the tiny pommel is a swan.

Since her ascension to the throne, Emma has engraved only her most treasured items with her personal emblem of the swan in flight. The coronation crown, the state ring she wears both as her wedding ring and a constant sign of her title, and a couple other important pieces of the crown jewelry she’s refashioned since becoming queen hold the symbol. Killian knows she’s given it out on pieces to her close friends before, and to receive a present from her with the swan engraved is a high honour, one everyone in court dreams of.

Forget the diamonds, forget the rubies – the real treasure is the swan.

He presses his fingers against the indentation, and glances back to Emma’s doors. She’s watching him from the doorway over Mary Margaret’s shoulder, and he raises the charm to his lips, the metal cool, and he can feel the indents of the swan crest against his mouth, and Emma smiles.

<> 

A week after the attack at the Bastille, Paris has returned to its lull of normal life, though a lingering anger simmers in the air. The execution of the Bastille guards had caused a stir earlier on in the week, the public learning that they were all killed with no trials inciting rage and fury that spilled out onto the streets. But the king’s guards had cracked down hard on any protests, hard enough to let the public know what fate awaited them too if they disagreed too loudly, and slowly the fuss faded into the background, becoming just another angry whisper against the monarchy.

Now it’s May Day, the first day of real spring, and while the courtiers up at the Louvre exchange sprigs of lily-of-the-valley and the young singles of the court attend the _bals de muguet_ , the common people are enjoying a night out too, taking advantage of the holiday to let the stress and anger of the last week drain away.

It’s nearing midnight already, but deep in the twists of the Parisian streets, in a cozy tavern with litres of flowing alcohol, the evening is just getting started. The whole pub is lively, even the owner of the bar, a matronly woman lovingly nicknamed Granny who is notoriously grumpy most of the time, seems to be enjoying herself. She even acquiesces to her granddaughter’s pleas to let her shirk her duties and have a round with some of the attendees of the pub.

But amidst all the fun, there is notably a lone, silent patron seated at one of the back tables. Her hood has remained up since her arrival, hiding her face, and she’s ordered only a glass of hot apple cider that she hasn’t touched. Her fingers are tapping rhythmically on the wooden table with a touch of annoyance, and if one could get a glimpse of her face, they’d see her attention is focused solely on a rowdy table near the front door.

The table is full of laughing men, playing dice and having drinks and eating _cassoulet_ and nibbling on cheeses. They’re a normal bunch, working-class men with some sporting dusty aprons and others with sawdust on their pants even at this time of day. The group should be of no interest to the woman in wait, but she keeps watch over them with narrowed, focused eyes.

After a while of laughter and jokes, with the woman still tapping her fingers, one of the men from the table hauls himself to his feet and salutes his fellows.

“Early start for me tomorrow, mates,” he says over the chorus of disapproving grumbles. “Have another drink for me, eh?”

He pauses to pull on a tweed jacket before exiting the bar, and the woman gets a better glimpse of his outfit as he angles towards her. He’s a worker at the Louvre, marked by the embroidered crest on his white shirt she can even see from a distance, but it is what’s beside that that interests her. A small pin next to the crest catches the light, the shape of the swan with its ducked head and long, curved neck gleaming in the candlelight as he finishes pulling on the jacket.

The woman’s fingers still.

As the man slips out the door, she gets to her feet, tucking her hood tighter around her face. She drops a few coins onto the table to cover her untouched drink and follows the man into the street.

He’s not gotten too far, strolling up the cobblestones, whistling to himself, and it takes the woman a few steps to catch up to him. She’s twisted his arm behind his back, shoving him up against a nearby alley wall before he can realize what is going on.

“Hey – what the hell!”

“Be quiet,” she snaps, withdrawing the dagger at her hip in a fluid, lethal motion. The man, spluttering, catches sight of the gleaming knife and his face pales.

“Hey, hey – whoa! What are you doing?”

“Sending a message,” she replies, with a sickly-sweet smile that makes the man turn even whiter.

“What? A message? You’ve got the wrong man, lady! Please, I’ll give you anything! I have money, I can give it to you –”

The woman snorts, and presses the tip of the dagger into the man’s neck, drawing a speckle of blood that makes him whimper.

“As if money is what I want.”

“Please.” The man’s voice is quivering, silent tears running down his face. “I’m nobody, please don’t do this –”

“Nobody?” the woman purrs in response, and she chuckles. With her free hand, she runs her fingers down his chest, coming to a rest over the fleur-de-lis sigil over his left breast and to fiddle with the small swan pin next to it. “This pin here says otherwise.”

“This – the pin? that – it’s nothing!” The man’s nearly sobbing now, and he sniffles, “I’m just a palace worker, ma’am, please, _please_ –”

The woman huffs and rolls her eyes at the pleas, wondering why they all do this ridiculous begging routine. It has never swayed her before, and she’s not about to grow a conscience now. The pointless pleas just serve to irritate her, to make her more determined to complete her mission than before.

And complete her mission she does.

The man slumps against the wall when she’s done, his body sagging with death, and she pulls her dagger free from his stomach. He collapses onto the street, falling on his front in the dirty road. She nudges his body onto its back with her foot, wrinkling her nose in distaste, and bends to wipe the dagger clean on his crisp uniform, making sure to drag it purposefully across the pin on his shirt, and slips the dagger into a sheath at her hip.

An idea takes over her and she pauses. She’s sent her benefactor’s message, but there’s no reason she can’t send her own message too. Let those damn Musketeers know what they’re dealing with.

Especially one in particular.

She saw him briefly a few weeks ago, during the royals’ coronation celebration. It was her first day in Paris, having been summoned from her last jaunt in England just days before. Watching the coronation parade was a chance to get a look at the royals and, as it turned out, one of their Musketeers.

She’s kept tabs on him through the years, knew he was a Musketeer, but seeing him had been a shock to her system. It had been ten years since she last saw him, walking away from her through jail bars, and then suddenly, there he was.

She’d been so surprised by the emotions that had overtaken her, she had to turn away, darting through the crowd as the royal carriage passed without her getting a good look inside.

But now ... now she wants to send a message, to let him know that she’s here. It’s been very difficult being in the same city as him, him none the wiser that that she survived his very best attempts to see her dead. That she’s still out here, fighting for a place in society, for a home, fighting for all the things he took away from her.

She withdraws a gleaming crimson apple from deep within her cloak, taking a slow deliberate bite, causing the juices to run down her chin as she considers the body in front of her.

Apples are her favourite, and he knows it. 

She tosses the apple, with the single bite taken out of it, onto the ground near the dead man. It rolls in the street and by the time it’s stopped moving, coming to rest by the man’s leg in the growing pool of blood, the woman is already gone, having disappeared into the night as if she was nothing more than a ghost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neal's speech when making David a Musketeer is from 1.08 of the BBC show.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/165585690203/if-the-stars-align-chapter-5-by


	6. Chapter VI

In the week following the attack at the Bastille, Killian has never been busier. With the traitorous guards and casualties of the attack combined, the prison lost more than a quarter of their total guards. The Musketeers took up the missing rotations until the Bastille could find replacements, and as the week comes to an end, Killian bets he could sleep for a month and still not feel rested.

The first night since returning to the regular Musketeer duties, it feels like Killian has just laid his head down when shouts of alarm and fear break through the silence, piercing and shrill, and he’s roused from a dead sleep as if he was doused with a cold sea wave.

“Murder! There’s been a murder!”

All thoughts of sleep are washed away; he’s awake instantly, rolling out of his bunk as the other Musketeers spring to life around him. He staggers out of the bunk room after a tense Lancelot, a half-asleep David, and grumpy Will, tugging on a thin cotton shirt and in the midst of strapping on his belt that holds his sword and pistol. Other Musketeers emerge from their own rooms too, scrubbing at their faces and eyes as they all stumble down the coarse staircase down to the courtyard.

It’s just dawn, the weak morning light filtering into the courtyard, and the dusty ground is crowded with a group of townspeople, some dressed and some in their sleep clothes, some crying and some white-faced in shock.

“What’s going on?” Lancelot demands.

The crowd all begin talking at once.

“There’s been a murder!”

“– it’s right down near ol’ Granny’s place –”

“– you need to come right now!”

“– poor bugger didn’t stand a chance –”

“Quiet!”

Killian turns around; above, on the second storey of the barracks, Captain Humbert has emerged from his quarters, fully dressed and armed. He shouts for silence again as he moves down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of the crowd beside Lancelot.

“Now,” he says, as calm as he ever is, hands on his hips. “What’s going on?”

A young man, assuming the crowd’s leadership, steps forward, removing his hat and clutching it in his hands.

“There’s been a murder, sir. By _La Lune._ I was going to get bread from the bread shop across the way when Mademoiselle Lucas let out a horrible scream, and so I went running over to her. And then – then I saw him. And the – and the blood, sir. It’s horrible.”

Captain Humbert frowns. “And how are you certain this man was murdered?”

The man exchanges an uneasy look with one of the men behind him, and gulps. The second man makes the sign of the cross, and the first steps forward and says something quietly to Captain Humbert that Killian can’t hear. But whatever it is, it makes the Captain’s frown deepen, and he gestures towards the barracks’ gates.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

Killian raises his eyebrows, exchanging a look with his fellow Musketeers. Though murders in Paris are hardly worthy of a full Musketeer investigation – that’s what the city guards are for – they all dutifully take up their place in the mock procession down to _La Lune_ , Killian wondering all the while what the man said to the Captain to make him act.

The rest of the crowd tags along behind as the young man directs them to a popular bar near the river Seine. It’s one Killian’s frequented many times himself, but they don’t go in, instead bypassing the bar and into the alleyway down the back.

There’s another crowd there, and David and Will set about clearing them off. As they do so, Killian spots the aforementioned Mademoiselle Lucas, leaning against the alley wall, staring into space with vague eyes. As the granddaughter of the owner of _La Lune_ , Killian has come to know Ruby fairly well over his time spent in the establishment, but he’s never seen her look as distressed as she does right now.

“Ruby?” he asks, as he slowly approaches her. “Are you alright?”

Her head snaps up, face pale, but she lets out a small smile when she recognizes him, sagging back against the wall in relief.

“Oh, Killian. I’m glad you’re here.”

“What happened?”

Her eyes flicker over to where Captain Humbert, Robin and Lancelot are now crouched down, leaning over a prone body, a pair of sprawled legs the only thing visible to Killian from his angle. There is a pool of dried blood surrounding the man’s torso, and he grimaces.

Ruby looks away, and shudders, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “I – I’m not sure. I was going out this morning to dump the trash, and I saw him. At first, I thought he was just a drunk, sleeping it off, but ... then I saw the blood.”

Killian frowns, and glances back to the half-hidden body. “Any ideas of who he is?”

She stares at the body again, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t know his name, I’ve seen him around the tavern a few times, but I know he’s not just anyone. Take a look at the pin on his chest.”

That doesn’t make any sense to him, and he wants to question her further, but someone calls out Ruby’s name and they both turn. It’s her grandmother, rushing into the alley, and she gathers Ruby up into her arms, hugging her tightly.  

Ruby sends him an apologetic look as her grandmother hurries her away, and Killian tips his hat at her in goodbye. He moves over to join the other Musketeers; Captain Humbert and Lancelot are questioning some of the crowd now, leaving only Robin examining the body. Killian’s stomach turns as he takes in the sight before him; murder is the only answer for what took place here.

“Dear God,” he mutters. He crouches down beside the man’s head and makes the sign of the cross, sending up a small prayer for the man’s soul. He may not be that religious of a man, but nothing can evoke spiritual thoughts more than the sight of a mangled, dead body.

Whoever did this to him was a skilled killer. The wounds are restricted to the body’s most vital areas: his throat, his stomach, his chest. The worst damage is to the man’s gut, and Killian has to look away, biting back the bile in his throat.

The man’s white clothing is soiled with mud and blood, and there’s a deliberate-looking streak of blood across a sigil of a fleur-de-lis on his left breast. That piques Killian’s attention, and he realizes this man was a worker at the Louvre, the symbol of the French crown on what Killian recognizes now as a uniform. He wonders if that was what Ruby was referring to, but he notices that beside the sigil there is a small pin, smeared with blood. It takes Killian a long moment to discern what it is of, and then his heart drops – it’s a swan.

The queen’s symbol.

A wave of uneasiness settles itself in Killian’s belly, distant alarm bells ringing in his head. While Emma restricts her symbol on gifts for only the most favoured, her most trusted and essential household members are allowed to wear pins like this so everyone knows their importance in the court. Killian knows it could be a coincidence this man worked for the queen, but something doesn’t feel right.

The necklace around his neck feels suddenly heavier than before, an anchor holding him down, and he tucks it securely into his jacket, out of view.

“Robin,” he says, nudging his comrade. “Did you see this pin?”

Robin is examining one of the man’s legs, and he doesn’t look over. “Palace worker, I know. I saw the sigil.”

“No, not that,” Killian says, and he elbows Robin again. “Look. It’s a swan. The queen’s mark.”

This time he does look over, but it’s just for a moment before he’s back to staring at the man’s leg. Killian raises his eyebrows at his fellow Musketeer, and lets out a grunt of annoyance.

“Robin, this could be important! This sigil is only worn by the queen’s most trusted members of her household, and here he is, dead in the street, _murdered_ , and – what is that?”

Robin has picked up an item from the ground, rotating it in his hand. It looks like nothing but a blob of mud to Killian until Robin murmurs, “It’s an apple.” 

“An apple?” Killian repeats, but when he peers closer, he sees that his hearing isn’t failing him; it is indeed an apple. It’s covered in a coat of dried blood with a single bite taken out of it, the white core browned now. Robin is staring at the apple as if he’s never seen anything like it before, and Killian shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around Robin’s reaction.

“Uh, okay. An apple. What’s your point?”

But Robin doesn’t answer. He gets to his feet, apple still in hand, and marches off, leaving Killian crouched over the body. He stares after him, but just sighs. He’s known Robin for a few years now, since he first started as a lowly recruit. Robin’s quiet, serious and stern, and won’t share anything unless it’s on his own terms.

Lancelot strides up to Killian as he straightens, brushing dirt off his pants.

“We got a name,” Lancelot says, glancing down at the body with a grimace. “Julius Gillert. He worked at the palace for years, and was made Keeper of the Queen’s Swans about two years ago.”

Killian’s stomach clenches and he stares down at the body again. That explains the pin, alright, and it increases his uneasiness and growing alarm. This isn’t just any member of the queen’s household – the keeper of her _swans_ , her favourite animal, her symbol, her piece of home away from home.

Captain Humbert calls out for him and Lancelot, and they move to join him. Robin slouches over too, standing between Will and David, and when Killian glances to his hands, the apple is nowhere in sight.

Captain Humbert gestures the Musketeers closer, and they end up standing in a circle, Gillert’s body just to their left. Killian is unsettled enough as it is, and he wishes he’d asked Ruby to fetch a clean bedsheet to cover him with.

“All right,” Captain Humbert says, shaking his head with a sigh. “Now, I know we don’t normally deal with this type of situation, but ... Gillert was a palace worker, in the queen’s service. It could be a coincidence, but we don’t want to take any chances it could have a connection to the palace or the queen.”

He glances back to the body, and moves to bend down at its side. He unpins the swan pin from the man’s chest, and wraps in a handkerchief from his pocket. He hands it to Killian.

“Head to the Louvre, tell the queen what happened. She’ll know his family too, so go on and tell them. Nolan, you go with Jones. Locksley, Scarlet, du Lac – you’ll stay with me, help me clean up this scene. We need to see if there are any other witnesses out here.”

They disperse immediately. Killian slips the handkerchief into his pocket, the weight of the sigil bloody feeling more like an anvil than a tiny pin. With the heaviness of the news they’re going to have to deliver and with his swan sword around his neck too, Killian feels more weighed down than ever before.

The palace is subdued as Killian and David approach it around an hour later. It’s early in the morning, and the palace guards just nod wearily at the Musketeers as they pass, entering into the main receiving hall.

It’s even quieter in here. There’s a single page standing by the west doors, and he glances over to Killian and David with bleary eyes before snapping to attention when he sees their blue cloaks.

“Musketeers,” he says, inclining his head slightly. “You’re here early.”

“We need to speak to Her Majesty,” Killian replies. The page raises his eyebrows, glancing out to the sky, still red and pink with sunrise, and Killian grits his teeth. “I know it’s early, but it’s important. It concerns a member of her household.”

The page looks like he would rather do anything but have to go wake the queen early, but disappears down the long hallway, footsteps fading into the distance.

Killian’s not sure how long he and David wait there in the big, empty foyer. His thoughts wander back to the dead body back beside _La Lune_ and the bloody swan pin in his pocket and he fiddles with the sword around his neck, and he hopes against hope, against his gut instinct, that this has nothing to do with her.

Finally, footsteps approach them again, and he and David drop into bows as Queen Emma sweeps into the room, accompanied only by Mary Margaret Whale. They look like they’ve just been woken up, dressed in simple gowns with their hair in braids, no jewellery or make up on.  

“Your Majesty,” they say in unison, rising back up.

Emma nods at them, her gaze flickering to the hats they’ve kept clutched in their hands; a frown crinkles her brow. “Is everything alright?”

David doesn’t make any motion to speak, so Killian takes a deep breath. “Unfortunately, we’ve come with bad news. Earlier today, a crowd came to our garrison. A body was found outside a local tavern and we’ve identified him as Julius Gillert.”

Emma’s eyes widen, and she takes a step backwards. “He – Monsieur Gillert is dead?”

Killian pulls out the handkerchief from his pocket. He takes a step forward, unravelling it to show Emma the bloody pin. She glances at it once, and then looks away, shaking her head in disbelief. Killian wraps it back up, slipping it into his pocket again and too late he wonders if he shouldn’t have cleaned the blood off before showing it to her.

“Captain Humbert and the others are investigating the scene, but we believe him to have been murdered,” he continues. “Rest assured, the ones responsible for this crime will be brought to justice.”

Emma seems to have barely heard anything he said since he first started talking; she’s staring off into space with wide eyes, unseeing. Killian exchanges a glance with Mary Margaret behind her. Mary Margaret steps forward, resting her hand on Emma’s arm, and that finally jolts her out of her thoughts.

Her face is masked now, all emotion of shock and disbelief erased in an instant, and she straightens her back.

“His family will have to be told. His wife and two daughters, they live on the grounds.” She looks at David. “Mary Margaret, please show Sir Nolan the way.”

Mary Margaret nods, and leads David away, their footsteps loud in the quiet palace. When they’re alone, Emma turns to Killian, jaw set in a hard line and her eyes guarded.

“What happened to him?”

Though the scene was gruesome and he’s probably breaking etiquette by telling Emma the details, Killian doesn’t want to sugar-coat it; she deserves to know the truth. “He was stabbed several times. And his throat was slit. There ... there was no chance for him.”

Emma shakes her head, and whispers, “I can’t believe it. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

Killian has no answer for that.

Emma asks more questions, about their investigation and possible suspects, but Killian can only tell her the bare bones of what he knows as he left almost immediately. He promises to update her when they know more, and though she doesn’t ask it, he can sense the unspoken question – does this have anything to do with her?

He doesn’t have an answer for that either, but he still wants to reassure her.

“If there are any connections to you ... we will protect you.”

She nods, swiping at her eyes. “I know.” Her gaze shifts to his pocket and she holds out her hand. “Can I have his pin or do you need it for the investigation? His wife will want it.”

“You can have it. But I can have it cleaned and returned to you first.”

Emma shakes her head, and accepts the handkerchief. “No. I’ll clean it.” She glances back to him, and her eyes dip to his chest. He realizes that when he was fiddling with his necklace he didn’t tuck it back away, and the sword with the swan charm is in full view. She reaches out, fingers brushing his chest and leaving goosebumps in their stead, and picks it up, threading the chain through her fingers and runs her thumb over the engraved swan.

“My symbol didn’t protect Gillert,” she says quietly, “but I hope it protects you.”

They’re alone in the room, and Killian covers her hand with his, squeezing her fingers. “Like I said earlier, love, I’m a survivor. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Her eyes remain sad, but she nods, offering a small smile and looks back down to the handkerchief. Her expression darkens, but before she can say anything, the doors swing wide open.

Killian immediately lets go of Emma’s hand, and she drops it back to her side, turning away as David and Mary Margaret return. They’re both morose and upset, and when Killian and David leave a few minutes later, Emma thanking them for telling her and to keep themselves safe too, Killian can’t help but think that he hopes his symbol of a swan is luckier than Gillert’s was.

<> 

Several hours later, after Gillert’s body is removed to the local morgue for further examination and after the Musketeers have spent hours upon hours interviewing and tracking down potential witnesses, Killian finds a chance to talk to Robin about the apple he found.

Though it’s been only a few hours, the best lead so far was the reports from numerous witnesses at _La Lune_ who were certain there’d been a woman in the bar that no one had ever seen before. No one could come up with much of a description, other than she’d been wearing a black cloak, hood pulled up over her head, and had ordered a hot apple cider she never touched.

The woman hid her face from Ruby and her granny too, so they aren’t much help. _La Lune_ gets all sorts of visitors, and a lone woman keeping her identity and features hidden ... well that’s just another night in Paris for them. Ruby said she assumed she was a woman on the run from an abusive husband or father, and hadn’t bothered to ask any questions.

And with no other evidence at the scene, no abandoned murder weapon, no stray hair or thread or ripped piece of clothing, there’s only one item they can look further into – the apple.

It’s intangible, but when Ruby said the woman was drinking apple cider, something in Killian’s gut had twisted. It’s a silly connection, probably nothing more than a coincidence, but his instinct is overpowering and he knows without a doubt she was involved in Gillert’s death. And other than Killian, Robin is the only one who knows about that apple.

Robin is in the stables, seeing to the horses when Killian returns to the barracks in the early evening. By the time he and David had left the Louvre and returned to _La Lune_ , Robin had already scampered off from the investigation, announcing he’d see to the needs of the barracks while the others investigated.

That had increased Killian’s suspicions that Robin knew more than he was saying, and he’d spent the rest of the afternoon in impatient agony, eager to return to the barracks and demand an explanation. Not that he thinks Robin had anything to do with the murder, mind. But like his gut instinct about the woman and the apple cider, this feeling is powerful too.

He probably should go straight to the Captain to tell him his suspicions, but Robin is the Musketeer he’s closest with, the one who gave him a chance to be here in the first place. Even if it’s entirely innocent, he owes Robin the chance to explain himself first.

In the stables, Robin’s preoccupied with one of the horses, brushing her down and murmuring softly to her. Killian has to clear his throat a few times to get his attention and finally Robin notices him, pausing his brushing.

“Oh, Killian, you’re back. How’s the queen?”

“She’s upset,” Killian says honestly. “She wants to find out who did this to Gillert probably more than anyone else.” He steps forward, further into the stables. “About that ... listen, Robin, I need to talk to you.”

Robin’s grip on the brush tightens ever so slightly, but his voice is calm and cool. “About what?”

“About that apple you found near Gillert’s body. I was talking to Ruby and she said there was a woman at the bar last night that no one knew, and she ordered apple cider and –”

“I told you to forget about that.”

Killian scowls in frustration. “Come on, mate. Don’t play stupid with me. You know something. I just want to talk about it, to see –”

Robin finally looks away from the horse, and shifts to stare at Killian, arms crossed over his chest. He remains silent, watching him with a defiant expression, and Killian trails off, taking a deep breath to force the frustration away and tries to make his voice calm.

“I know you aren’t involved, but I think you may know who is. I’m trying to figure out what happened to Gillert. If you know who that woman is, and she’s innocent, we need to clear her and see if she knows anything –”

Robin lets out a half-strangled bark, and he shakes his head. “She is not innocent.” 

Finally, they’re getting somewhere. Killian raises his eyebrows, and gestures for Robin to continue. But Robin realizes he’s said too much, and he’s beginning to look like he would rather swallow a fish whole instead of answering. Killian stares him down, and Robin mutters a curse.

“Fine. I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions. I – she’s supposed to be dead, so I don’t understand. They told me she was dead, but only she would leave an apple behind like that. It’s sort of her thing.”

He’s rambling now, making Killian more confused than before, and he interrupts, “Okay, so who is she? How do you know her?”

He shifts his feet, staring down at the ground. “It’s – it’s complicated. But – her name ... her name is Regina. I was young and naïve when I met her ... and I never knew what she was capable of. If I had, I never would have married her.”

Killian feels like he’s been punched in the stomach and he gapes at Robin. “What – she’s your _wife_?”

He didn’t know Robin _was_ married, let alone married to a woman who apparently murders men in the street and leaves apples behind as calling cards.

Robin looks positively ill now. “I – I thought she was dead, but ... but this has to be her. The apples ... she’s sending me a message. Letting me know it’s her.”

Killian shakes his head. “This is madness. Your _wife_ killed Gillert? Why? For what purpose? To let you know she’s alive?”

Robin just shrugs. “I have no idea. But,” he adds, his voice darkening, a haunted gleam to his eyes that makes Killian realize there’s much more to this story than he knows. “She’s killed before. I wouldn’t put this past her.”

Robin doesn’t reveal anymore, and after a few moments, turns abruptly and mutters darkly about needing a drink. He takes off away from the stables, leaving Killian, still utterly flabbergasted, behind.

He leans against the barn wall, and lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head again. Whatever answer Killian thought he was going to get, it was _not_ this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/165834958698/if-the-stars-align-chapter-6-by
> 
> The next chapter was one of my favourites to write, so keep an eye out for it next Thursday! Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter VII

In the weeks after Gillert’s death, no one can find any trace of the mysterious woman in the pub, the one the Musketeers are convinced is Regina, Robin’s estranged (and thought dead) wife.

Killian doesn’t know the whole backstory, much to his annoyance. Robin has been mute on it, only telling them the bare essentials. Before he was a Musketeer, when he still lived in a small village outside of Paris nearly a decade ago now, he’d been married to her. They’d been married for a year before she was accused and convicted of murdering a young woman who had died mysteriously a few years earlier. He’d left town before her execution date, unable to watch his wife die, and as far as he knew, she’d died by the hangman’s noose while he was on his way to Paris.  

Killian can tell there’s more to the story, with the way Robin’s eyes grow haunted and grief-stricken at the mention of this young woman who Regina killed, but he doesn’t pry. Killian has own hidden past; he wouldn’t want anyone snooping into that either.

Today, instead of searching and inquiring and continuing, the Musketeers are spending time at the barracks. In a week’s time, Emma and her retinue are going to Nantes for a wedding of one of her former ladies, a young woman named Ariel. Killian’s squadron of Musketeers will be accompanying her, meaning they've got to get things straightened out for the near month they’ll be gone.

Though the morning was productive in assigning chores and duties, as the afternoon heat rolls around, cleaning and packing falls to the wayside and the Musketeers end up lounging around the courtyard instead, making the younger recruits do all the work.

Killian doesn’t feel too bad for them, though, because after lunch Mary Margaret Whale arrived, dressed in a pair of loose trousers, a borrowed sword clutched tightly in her hands, a determined edge to her jaw. The sight of her made all the recruits drop their mops and brooms, clustering around the edge of their practice fencing ring as she declared that she wanted to duel the Musketeers.

Since the events at the Bastille and the death of Gillert, Killian’s sensed an uneasiness amongst the queen’s ladies, but especially with Mary Margaret. She’s never had any defensive training and, from what David’s told him, she’s determined to fix that. David has already trained her in the basics, and with her presence at the barracks today, she’s determined to take on new challengers.

Killian has already had his turn, ending up with his face shoved into the dirt by the heel of her boot, his left knee smarting from where she kicked him to the ground. He wasn’t going on easy on her; he just wasn’t expecting her to be so vicious after only a few weeks of lessons.

He retreated to his quarters to clean up, and when he returns, Robin is in the ring with Mary Margaret, looking in a sorry state of affairs himself. Lancelot’s gone too, sporting a split lip as he sits beside David, dabbing at it with a damp cloth as they watch Mary Margaret and Robin.

To join them across the courtyard, Killian would have to walk through the fighting ring and he has no desire to do that, lest Mary Margaret see it as a challenge and knock him down again. Instead, he drops onto one of the tables on the other side of the ring with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his sore knee as it twinges in protest.

Will, already seated there, chortles as Killian digs out his flask from his jacket, taking a deep drink, hoping the rum will help his knee.

“Hurt, mate?”

Will leans over, meaning to slap him on the knee, but Killian grabs his hand before he can, holding it tightly and giving him a dark glare.

“You won’t be laughing when it’s your turn.” 

As he says it, Mary Margaret takes a winning step in her fight against Robin, spinning and slashing his sword out of his hand. Robin immediately steps back, hands up in surrender.

“Your victory, Madame.”

Mary Margaret inclines her head in acknowledgement, then her face breaks into a wide smile. She turns to David behind her, whose own grin could light up a dark night, and rushes over to him.

Robin joins Killian and Will on their side of the ring, collapsing on the table top and panting, “That woman is a brilliant fencer. I don’t know what David’s been teaching her, but she’s fantastic.”

Will laughs, and casts a disparaging look at Robin and Killian. “I’m not surprised that she can best you lot, but she hasn’t faced _me_ yet.”

Mary Margaret hears him, and marches over, twirling her sword so it rests on her shoulder, David looking on smugly from behind her.

“That’s right, Sir Scarlet! I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of defeating you yet.”

Will chuckles, standing and drawing his own sword. “Ah, Madame, I fear _this_ Musketeer will be one you cannot beat, neither by your _charm_ –” he looks pointedly to David, who flushes like a schoolboy – “or your skills.”

Mary Margaret smiles sweetly as she bows low to Will for the beginning of the duel. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

As they start to circle each other, confidence emanating from both of their steps, Killian can’t help but what Emma would think about seeing her friend best the Musketeers with such natural talent and skill.

Mary Margaret had informed them Emma had wanted to come and watch, and maybe brush up on the few skills she learned in Denmark while on the run from the Norwegians. But the king caught wind of it, and put his foot down.

He was apparently worried about what impression it would make to have the Queen of France visit the rough and tumble Musketeer garrison in the centre of Paris, far from the protective walls of the Louvre. Since the attack at the Bastille, and the subsequent execution of the guards, there’s been an uneasy tension in the streets of Paris. People can understand men sentenced to death for treason against the royals, but hanged without a trial? That’s turned even some of the loyalist Parisians nasty and grumbling, and it could spell trouble for Emma if anyone caught wind she wasn’t in the Louvre.

Killian understands, but that didn’t stop his heart from sinking when Mary Margaret arrived without her. And though he is enjoying watching Mary Margaret beat her way through the Musketeers, he would’ve enjoyed it even more with Emma’s presence beside him too.

Absently, Killian’s hand migrates to the sword charm around his neck, untucking it from under his shirt. He’s fiddling with it while watching the duel between Mary Margaret and Will, and nearly snaps it in half in surprise when Robin asks, “What’s that?”

He lets it drop from his hand and says, as casually as he can muster, “Just a trinket.”

Unfortunately, said trinket falls back against his chest and doesn’t slip in behind his open vest, the jewels sparkling in the sunlight.

Robin stares at the glittering sword and snorts. “That’s a bit of an extravagant _trinket_ , Jones, even for you.”

“It was a gift,” Killian says simply, hoping to leave it at that, but at Robin’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and adds reluctantly, “From a friend.”

“What kind of friend do you have that can afford _that_?”

Killian stares back at him, unease running through him, suddenly feeling on guard. He’s uncertain of what to say; the queen has been known to give gifts of thanks before to other soldiers for exceptional duty, but Killian doesn’t need to see what the others received to know that his is not that kind of present.

That thought makes him almost more nervous to share with Robin, but his fellow is staring at him expectantly, eyebrows crunched together in curiosity, and Killian has to give an answer. He thinks about lying, but the swan crest on the back will betray him should Robin ask to see it.

Damn it all anyways.

“The queen gave it to me.”

And, true enough, whatever Robin was expecting, it wasn’t that. His eyebrows raise dramatically, mouth popping open in surprise.

“The _queen_?”

“Well, don’t go bloody announcing it to the whole world,” Killian grumbles, shooting a glance around, but all others in the courtyard are engrossed in watching Mary Margaret and Will duel, giving no sign they have noticed Robin’s exclamation.

Robin holds out his hand, beckoning expectantly. “Let me see it.”

Killian curses darkly, but pulls the chain over his head and passes it to Robin. The other man examines it closely, eyes widening at the jewels along the little sword, before flipping it over. Killian sees the exact moment Robin finds the engraving of the swan, because though his eyes were already wide, they nearly bug out of his head now.

“Her _swan_ crest?” He looks up sharply, and glares at Killian. “I hope you haven’t done anything stupid.”

“I haven’t,” Killian replies, and he’s far too aware of the petulant, stubborn edge to his voice. He reaches out for the sword, and Robin reluctantly drops it back into his hand. “It’s just a token, that’s all. As thanks for saving her at the Bastille.”

The words sound like a lie even to his own ears, and Robin shakes his head. “A token worth more than our yearly salaries combined _and_ personalized by the queen with her swan.”

Killian doesn’t answer, and Robin swears. He glances back to the courtyard, where David is watching Mary Margaret get the upper-hand with Will with shining eyes, pride emanating from his features, and mutters, “What is it with Musketeers and married women?”

Though his heartbeat quickens at the implication, a spark of hope flaming to life in his chest at the mere thought, Killian tries to play it off with an affronted scoff. “You’re being ridiculous, mate. It’s just a necklace. A sign of her thanks. Nothing more.”

But it is a weak lie, and Robin’s expression is wary, a warning glint to his eyes.

“Don’t be a fool, Killian. You know what would happen to you and to her if anything happened between you two –”

“Nothing will,” Killian mutters, hoping the words don’t sound as bitter as they taste. “Nothing will happen.”

An exclamation of applause bursts out from the spectators as Mary Margaret knocks Will to his knees, David jumping forward to twirl Mary Margaret in the air.

“David and Madame Whale are one thing,” Robin says sternly, and Killian stiffens, “but if you do so much as _look_ at the queen in a way that draws suspicion, you could be in serious trouble. And, more importantly so could she.”

Killian opens his mouth, ready to retort again, but Robin holds up a hand for silence.

“Nothing can come of it,” he says. “Whatever you think –”

“I know that,” Killian interrupts, frustrated now. “I just –”

“What the hell is going on here?”

The new voice is loud and angry, cutting Killian off. At the entrance gates to the barracks, furious and red-faced, is Victor Whale. Instantly the hubbub in the yard fades into silence, and Mary Margaret takes several steps away from David, twisting her arms to hide her sword behind her back.

“The Musketeers were teaching me –”

“We were just –”

Dr. Whale scoffs, and both David and Mary Margaret fall silent. He steps further into the courtyard, his eyes falling to the sword she tried to hide and to her dusty trousers and sweaty face. He shakes his head in irritation.

“When I heard the queen had granted you a free afternoon, I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together. Imagine my surprise to hear you instead had come _here_ , of all places.” His eyes flicker to David, similarly dusty and sweaty, and his lip curls in disgust. “I would think if it were not appropriate for the queen to come here, you, Madame, would take similar discretion to not harm your reputation of holding such company.”

Mary Margaret flushes bright red, and David grits his teeth. An insult like that to David is an insult to them all, and Killian closes his fist, clenching the sword charm in his hand tightly. He feels Robin tense beside him too, and watches Lancelot shift his weight, hand drifting to the sword at his waist.

But Dr. Whale pays them all no mind, oblivious to the now-tense Musketeers. He holds out his hand expectantly for Mary Margaret and beckons her forward.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

She hesitates for a brief second, eyes flickering to David with a pained, wistful look that only incenses Dr. Whale further. He steps forward, close enough to grasp her hand tightly in his, and snaps, “I said _we’re leaving_.”

When Mary Margaret is at his side, he turns his cold glare to the Musketeers, to David and Will in the yard, and to Killian and Lancelot and Robin on the benches, and surveys them with a disgusted frown.

“And I’ll thank you, _Musketeers_ , to not ‘teach’ my wife such barbaric things in the future. She has a place in this world, and it certainly is not behaving like you lot.”

He turns sharply and pulls Mary Margaret alongside him out of the courtyard, talking angrily now about _respect_ and _propriety_ and _decency_.

The mood in the garrison has soured now, the recruits grabbing their mops and brooms again, and David watches them leave, frowning and morose. Lancelot claps him on the shoulder in solidarity.

“Barbaric, is it now?” he says, not bothering to wait until Dr. Whale is out of earshot. “Wasn’t so barbaric all the times we’ve saved his arse.”

Robin begins delegating duties to resume the clean up and packing, but Killian’s hardly listening. He’s watching David, at the unreadable expression in his eyes as he watches Mary Margaret and the doctor until the round the corner down the street, and Robin’s words from before echo through his mind again – w _hat is it with Musketeers and married women?_  

The thought gives him a chill, and he shivers. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts, jumping down from the table to join the other and tucking the charm back under his shirt. The cool metal settles against his chest, resting just above his heart, and he can’t help but agree with Robin’s assessment – what is it indeed.

<> 

Back at the Louvre, the afternoon seemed to drag on and on. Emma, furious at Neal’s refusal to let her join Mary Margaret, had retreated to one of the lesser used sitting rooms, one where he never ventured so she wouldn’t lose her temper in front of the court and prove his point further that _see, the queen shouldn’t spend time with rough men, this is what it does to her temper_.

She almost left anyways, damn Neal to hell, but Cardinal Gold’s Red Guards had somehow got wind of her intentions, and had casually set themselves up at any entrance Emma walked by. They couldn’t stop her even if they wanted to, but the thought of them reporting to Gold that she’d left anyways made Emma’s skin crawl; he doesn’t need anymore ammunition against her than he already has.

So, even more furious now, she’d stomped up to the sitting room. Other than being a neglected space, the room happens to be one that overlooks the main entrance to the Louvre, one where she can wait and watch for Mary Margaret’s return. There’s a small part of her too that’s hoping one particular Musketeer elects to accompany her friend back to the palace, because, honestly, she’s not sure what else could improve her mood today.

Emma picked up a book and stared at it until her eyes start to burn and water, and she hasn’t read a single word of it. She’s angled it so she can look over the top and out the window, but so far, no one of any interest has approached the palace. After a while, she wonders if Mary Margaret will ever return, and Emma finds herself not blaming her at all; Emma doesn’t know some days if she wants to return to the palace either.

After hours of waiting, she finally spots Mary Margaret’s dark head striding through the courtyard with a man at her side. A surge of hope rushes through her, but is dashed almost immediately; it’s not any of the Musketeers – it’s a furious Dr. Whale.

A pit of dread settles in her stomach, her mind already jumping to the worst conclusions of what has occurred. She sets her book down and gets to her feet. Her other ladies rise instantly, but she waves them back down and orders them to remain here as she sweeps from the room.

By the time she’s circumvented through the palace towards the main entrance, she can hear Dr. Whale’s voice echoing from within the foyer and she marches towards the doors. The pages quickly swing open the doors for her, and though it’s apparent that Dr. Whale was in the middle of lecturing Mary Margaret, he falls silent mid-sentence at Emma’s arrival.

“Your Majesty,” he says, inclining his head in a bow as Emma marches right up to him, hands on her hips. 

“Dr. Whale,” Emma says, and not bothering with more of a greeting than that, continues, “I am glad you’re here. I hear Lord Grincheux is in dire need of your assistance. His gout, you know. Makes him very grumpy.”

Annoyance flashes in Dr. Whale’s eyes, but it’s gone quickly and he nods. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll see to him right away.” 

He glances once at Mary Margaret, who refuses to meet his eyes, staring at the wall across the foyer. A muscle in his jaw pulses, but he doesn’t say anything else with Emma there, and departs from the hall.

The moment the pages close the door behind him, Emma softens her stance and turns to Mary Margaret, demanding, “What happened?”

Mary Margaret glares at the doorway which her husband disappeared through. “Nothing. He found out I was at the barracks and overreacted, as usual. Said I made a fool of myself by cavorting with them.”

Emma frowns, a rush of anger on her friend’s behalf coursing through her, and she squeezes Mary Margaret’s arm. “I am sure you did no such thing.”

She shrugs. “I suppose I was, though. Sword fighting isn’t exactly the proper behaviour for a lady.”

Frustration joins the swell of anger, and maybe because she herself has already had an infuriating day, but something inside her snaps. She’s been on edge for weeks now, ever since the Bastille where she thought she was going to die at any moment, and finally she feels a clarity at _why_ she is still so rattled - neither she or Mary Margaret were prepared for the Bastille.

“It should be proper for us too,” Emma proclaims, making Mary Margaret look at her in surprise. “We have a right to defend ourselves, just as much as men do. _More_ , considering the type of things women are often faced with. Why do they get to learn how defend themselves, while we have to sit around and wait to be saved?”

Mary Margaret’s mouth is hanging open, but Emma continues, her voice growing louder and fiercer with every word. “At the Bastille, if Killian and David had not been there we would both be dead right now. I only know a few disarming moves the guards taught me in Denmark years ago, and I haven’t practiced those in years. I couldn’t have saved us against those guards. We are alive because the Musketeers know how to fight. We deserve to know those same skills so if next time they aren’t there, we can save ourselves!”

Her words echo through the hall now, making all the pages and servants in the hall stare at her. Emma flushes at the attention, already knowing the news of this latest ‘temper tantrum’ is surely on its way to Neal or Gold, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

“I agree with you,” Mary Margaret says, resting her hand on Emma’s arm. “But what can we do about it? I know the Musketeers would teach us at the drop of a hat, but neither of our husbands will let us go to the garrison.”

Emma grits her teeth together, and shakes her head. That’s always been the problem – as much as the palace is a beautiful home, she sometimes feels like it’s nothing more than a beautiful cage.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to figure something out.”

<> 

Three days later, Emma’s still thinking about what to do. They’ll be leaving for Nantes in three days, and with the flurry of packing and sending most of her household on ahead, there hasn’t been much time for thinking up a plan. This evening was supposed to be one of her free evenings, and Emma was looking forward to settling down and trying to figure out a plan, but then Neal dropped a surprise on her – he was going to host a goodbye dinner for her.

When the messenger arrived at her quarters, she thought for a moment that Neal was summoning her to give her a lecture about her outburst the other day. But, instead to have a dinner hosted in her honour? It’s been a long time since that happened.

Some of his old friends are in Paris, and Neal invites them to attend too. The group, which Neal affectionately nicknamed years ago as “the lost boys” are a ragtag of men orphaned as children and forgotten for much of their youth. At one point, Emma had been friends with some of them too, the lost girl amongst the lost boys. But that had been years ago at this point, and now she feels like a complete outsider amongst them, now the single woman in the boys’ club. 

Especially with the newest members. They’re younger by nearly a decade, young men in love with the power and money and prestige that comes with being in the king’s inner circle. But Neal doesn’t see it that way, and even if Emma said something, she knows it would fall on deaf ears. She’s had a way with telling when people are being dishonest her entire life, but Neal’s never believed in her.

Dinner passes quickly, with much of the talk revolving around business and international politics. Emma is excited to hear about their travels, as she’s been trapped in France for years, but every time the talk veers towards the impact of religion on the international politics, someone clears their throat and the conversation shifts immediately. As dessert finishes, Emma’s starting to feel more like the elephant in the room than a mere outsider.

After the food is cleared away, one of the men teaches everyone how to play a new game he learned in Belgium. Neal promises a new horse to whomever comes out with the most profit of the night, raising the stakes. The men’s eyes shine at the prospect, the game becoming serious and more vicious as the evening goes on.

Emma doesn’t join in, not after the askance glances she gets for asking to be dealt a hand in the first round, and she’s bored after twenty minutes, deciding to call it a night. To her annoyance, no one notices she stands; this was supposed to be _her_ goodbye dinner, after all, but no one rises to say a goodbye to her as she marches from the dining hall.

Too frustrated to sleep, instead of returning to her quarters, Emma wanders the palace. It’s past midnight now, the servants asleep ahead of another long day, and the palace is almost eerily quiet.

She wishes she could give Henry a kiss goodnight, but he’s already on the road to Nantes, having been sent on ahead. Henry’s a good traveller, but ten days straight of horses and carriages makes him as grumpy and miserable as a toddler; Emma learned that the hard way a few years ago when she started going to Bordeaux for the winter. Sending him ahead will allow him a few days’ rest at a hunting retreat halfway to Nantes where Emma will meet up with him to finish the trek.

The original plan had not been to bring Henry with her to Ariel’s wedding, but when Emma realized that meant leaving Henry in Paris where Gold could conduct his ‘lessons’ without her supervision, she put her foot down. Either Henry was coming with Emma for the month or she wanted Gold out of Paris for the same length of time.

And to her complete surprise, Neal had agreed.

(Though she’s not sure she should have been _that_ surprised; Neal without the cardinal’s influence for a month? France would crumble into the sea.)

Gold was furious when he learned of Emma’s plans, angry that he was being ‘sidelined’ and he only calmed when Neal decided the Red Guards could accompany Henry to the halfway point, the Musketeers taking over when she joined him.

That in turn prompted Emma to send Mary Margaret with Henry, wanting someone she trusted with him at all times, but now she misses her friend’s presence. She would normally seek her out to decompress after an evening such as this, but in the silence of the palace halls, she’s reminded how alone she is right now.

In her wanderings, she’s ended up at the south end of the palace, near a large hall that overlooks the gardens outside, and to her immense surprise, she’s not the only one in the room.

“Sir Jones?”

Killian nearly jumps a foot in the air, hand automatically reaching to the hilt of his sword. He relaxes almost as quickly when he realizes it’s her, and dips his head into a bow.

“Your Majesty. My apologies, you startled me.”

“You startled me too,” Emma says, moving across the hall to join him. She can’t believe her luck, and her mood feels almost instantly better, as it always does when in Killian’s presence. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I was updating the palace guards,” he explains. “Since the attack at the Bastille, we’ve been checking in with them more regularly.”

“And now you’re lurking in one of the halls?” she teases, stepping closer to bump his arm with hers. “Staring out the windows at the flowers?”

A light blush covers his cheeks, and he glances out the window again. “I was on my way out when I passed this window, and I wondered if ... if I could see your swans. To see how they are doing since ...” He trails off, looking uncomfortable, and Emma’s heart twinges.

“They’re doing well. Madame Gillert and her daughters are taking care of them for me. It’s ... it’s what Monsieur Gillert would have wanted.” She pauses, trying not to think about the haunted eyes of the widow and her daughters when she’d given them Monsieur Gillert’s swan pin, clean from blood, and instead fixes Killian with a hard stare. “Any news on suspects?”

He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “There have been some leads. But we haven’t arrested anyone yet.”

Emma narrows her eyes; he’s telling the truth, but there’s a sliver of dishonesty there too, and her inner sense for lies pings. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He looks back to her, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Emma plants her hands on her hips and stares pointedly at him. “I know when someone is lying to me. Or at least leaving out some of the story.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then seems to think better of it and he nods briefly. “Aye, you’re right, love. I just – well, there’s nothing concrete yet, no arrests, but we do have a suspect.”

“Who is it?”

Killian looks uncomfortable for a minute. “Her name is Regina. She’s – she’s actually Robin’s wife.”

Emma chokes out, “His _wife_?”

“His _estranged_ wife,” Killian clarifies quickly. “He hasn’t seen her in nearly a decade, and he thought she was dead until a few weeks ago.”

Emma gapes at him, her mind swirling, trying to paste all the puzzle pieces together.

“What did Robin’s wife have against Monsieur Gillert?”

Killian shrugs, shoulders tense and stance annoyed. “That’s what we don’t know yet. But we’re still investigating, and when I know more, I’ll let you know.”

She nods, and wants to demand more right now anyways, but Killian shifts his weight slightly, wincing as he moves more of his weight to his left leg, and she frowns.

“What happened? Are you injured?”

He shakes his head, and lets out a chuckle. “I’m fine. I have Madame Whale to thank for this.”

“Really?” Emma says, surprised. When Killian nods, though her mind is still jumbled with the name of Monsieur Gillert’s suspected killer, she can’t help but smile at the thought of Mary Margaret knocking Killian to the ground. “That’s incredible. I wish I could have seen that.”

He must sense the wistful tone to her voice because he smiles softly. “Your presence was missed there, Your Majesty.”

Emma glances to him sharply. Perhaps it’s because she knows Neal never seems to care whether Emma is around (he probably won’t have noticed her absence yet from the dining hall) or maybe because she’s annoyed that she was kept away from attending the barracks with Mary Margaret or maybe because when she told Killian to tell her the truth he did, no questions asked, but she suddenly doesn’t want to be _Your Majesty_ with Killian anymore.  

“Please, call me Emma.”

His neck cricks as he whirls his neck to look at her. “I – what?”

Emma gestures to the empty hall around them, her fast heartbeat loud enough to fill the hall as far as she’s concerned. “It’s only us here. ‘Your Majesty’ is so formal … and sometimes I do not wish to be the queen. Just Emma.”

He stares at her blankly. “What?” he asks again, dumbfounded, and Emma feels a thrill rush through her; it’s not often she shocks a Musketeer into silence.

“Are you sure Mary Margaret didn’t hit you on the head earlier?” Emma teases, and at that Killian breaks out of his stare with a chuckle.

“Maybe she did.”

Speaking of Mary Margaret’s time at the barracks... an idea occurs to her. They’re about to go to Nantes, will be on the road for weeks, away from the control of the court, the cardinal and the king. Now with the news that they have a suspect for Gillert’s killer, a woman who knows how to fight and kill, Emma feels even more defenceless herself, and this may be her only chance to ask Killian if he’ll do it.

“I want to learn how to fight.”

Killian blinks several times, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “You – pardon?”

“When we were at the Bastille, I was useless.”

Catching on now, Killian opens his mouth to disagree, but Emma barrels on over him.

“Yes, I was. And I haven’t felt that kind of fear since I was a young girl in Denmark. I need to be able to protect myself. I may not be allowed to go to your barracks, but I know Sir Nolan found a way to teach Mary Margaret without Dr. Whale knowing before that. For me, it may be more difficult, but I think we can find a way. Besides,” she adds, as he’s just staring back at her and maybe it will have to be a tit-for-tat that will convince him, “I taught you how to dance. This will make us equal.”

He laughs, broken out of his shock, and shakes his head with a grin. “That is true.”

But he doesn’t say anything else, and for a second, Emma fears she’s put him in an awkward position, realizing too late that Killian’s duties aren’t just to _her_ – he also has to respect whatever the king wants too.

“Neal doesn’t have to know, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she adds, but Killian frowns and shakes his head.

“It’s not that,” he says, and his mouth quirks up into a smirk. “I was just thinking that if you’re as skilled a dancer as you are a fighter, there won’t be much use for me anymore.”

An enormous weight lifts from Emma’s shoulders, and she breaks out into a grin.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Of course! If you want to learn to defend yourself, I will do my best to teach you. I doubt I’ll be as good as a teacher as you, but –”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re perfect.”

That sentence lingers in the air between them, her internal thoughts spoken out loud. For a second, Emma wants to take them back, but that quickly disappears at the look on Killian’s face, the slightly stunned way his eyes widen. He comes to his senses, shaking his head and stepping back.

“Your Majesty is too kind.”

With the prospect of fighting lessons looming on the horizon, a tide of recklessness sweeps over Emma, flooding away any thought of common sense. She doesn’t regret saying that to him – she _wants_ him to know what she’s feeling. She doesn’t have Henry or Mary Margaret for comfort or companionship, but maybe she isn’t so alone here after all.

“Emma,” she corrects, closing the distance between them again. They’re nearly toe-to-toe now, and though the room is dark, lit only by the pale moonlight, she can see the blue of his eyes, as blue as the seas he used to sail.

“Emma,” he repeats slowly, rolling out the syllables on his tongue and sending a thrill right through her. He licks his lips, eyes darting down to her mouth, and at that, Emma doesn’t wait any longer.

Common sense be damned, Emma grabs the collars of his jacket, hauling him closer and crushing her lips against his.

For a single moment, Killian doesn’t move, too stunned to do anything. But Emma keeps kissing him, pressing herself closer against him, and he finally reacts, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her back as if his life depends on it.

His lips are soft, softer than she ever could have imagined, and it’s as if her body is aware this could never happen again, because she opens her mouth, wanting more right away. He follows her lead, deepening the kiss, and Emma groans. He tastes vaguely like rum, and she wonders if he had a drink from his flask before she got here. But she doesn’t think about that for longer than a second, as his hand is in her hair, tilting her head to the side to kiss her more insistently.

It feels like an eternity later when they break apart for breath, both gasping for breath. Emma can feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest, every nerve in her body tingling and burning, and she wants nothing more than to haul him closer again. But the common sense Emma stifled for the past few minutes comes slamming back as he starts to say “That was –” and she realizes just what she’s done.

_You’re the queen, Emma._

_This could get him killed._

“A one-time thing,” Emma says, releasing Killian’s collar and stepping away. She smooths her dress with shaking hands, her mind torn between just turning back to Killian, consequences be damned, and the screams of her sensible side telling her to get out of here before a servant or a guard or _hell_ Neal wanders in.

But the consequences are too enormous, and she swallows, trying to ignore her tingling lips and the rum she can still taste, and makes her decision.

“Wait a few moments, then leave out the west wing.”

Killian is silent from behind her, and Emma can easily imagine the wrecked expression on his face because she’s sure that’s how she must look too. She’s nearly at the door before he finally speaks, his voice following her out the door, soft and gentle.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/166078191868/if-the-stars-align-chapter-7-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter VIII

A few days later, Emma and the Musketeers leave Paris on the journey to Nantes. The quiet of the French forests is a far cry from the bustle of Paris, and Killian can feel the tension and stress of the city ebbing away with every step they take away from the capital.

The journey has so far been pleasant. They’ve been on the road for three days, riding hard during the cool hours, and resting in shaded gloves when the heat becomes too unbearable.

Though perhaps _resting_ isn’t the right word for it.

True to her word, the moment Paris was a smudged feature on the horizon, Emma announced she wanted to get started with her fighting lessons. The other Musketeers were surprised, but true to _his_ word, Killian set about teaching her, no matter what they thought.  

So far, they’ve started with the basics of sword fighting and other defensive skills. Like Killian was a quick study at dance, Emma is a natural at sword fighting, her determination to be able to protect herself driving her forward.

She’s determined and focused, talking to him only of strategy and technique, and it allows Killian to focus on just that too. Though the memory of the other night is burned into his mind – the darkened hall, the moonlight illuminating her beautiful face, the press of Emma’s soft lips against his – he’s trying very hard to remind himself it was a stolen moment. Though he sees and feels the memory every time he closes his eyes, that will have to do; it’s nothing he’ll ever get to repeat.

A one time thing, as she said.

On her part, Emma treats him no differently than before, smiling and polite and just as courteous as ever. He almost starts to believe that she is truly unaffected by what happened, but sometimes he can feel the heat of her gaze on him when she thinks he’s not looking, and he knows she’s not as cool as she makes it seem.

And selfishly (stupidly) that gives him hope.

On this third day of travel, they’ve stopped for lunch near a small stream, letting their horses rest and drink to cool off from the heat of the day. The only sign of civilization is an old stone convent on a hill top several hundred feet to the west, towering and impressive and casting a wide shadow over the glade.

Will and Lancelot are seeing to the horses while David fills the group’s water skins from the stream. Robin is picking some nearby berries, inspecting the bushes closely to ensure they’re safe, and Emma’s maid, a young woman named Aurora, is sorting out the day’s rations of hard cheese and even harder bread.

With most of her household gone ahead already, their trip taking more time with all the people and items and clothing that has to be transported too, Emma has only brought Aurora with her. Her explanation was that it was easier to travel lightly and that she only required one maid for help anyways. And that may be true, but Killian understands her reasoning is for another reason too – she only wants one witness to see her learn how to fight.

And Aurora has no problem with it. Aurora told the story of how she grew up with three widowed aunts in the middle of a forest, and with no one else around to protect them, Aurora had to learn her way around a weapon to protect them all. 

When their respective tasks are complete, the Musketeers and Aurora spread out on some large boulders nearby, munching away on today’s lunch while Killian returns to the group, having set up a small log he found nearby on a boulder across the small glade as a target.

The last few days they’ve focused on sword fighting, a skill Emma has quickly excelled at. In Denmark, the guards taught her how to use a dagger and they’ve brushed up on those skills as well. But, today, they’ve scheduled themselves a longer trek, trying to make up for the time they’ve lost in the past few days from Emma’s lessons, and so Killian’s decided to teach Emma a less exhausting form of defense – the pistol.

“A pistol,” Killian says, holding out his own towards Emma as he walks back over to her, “is one of the most important weapons in a Musketeer’s arsenal.”

Emma nods seriously, but there’s a twinkle in her eye as she accepts the pistol from Killian. “Not the musket?”

Killian chuckles and gestures for Emma to turn around so they’re facing the target. “The musket is the weapon of the battlefield. The pistol is for closer combat.”

He explains how the gun works, how to fire it, and that after she fires, she’ll probably feel quite the kickback on her arm. She listens studiously, and when he’s done his explanation, the audience behind them quietens as Emma raises the pistol, anticipation growing and crackling in the air.

Killian steps closer to her, and presses gently on her elbow. “Don’t hold your arm so tight, Emma,” he says, quiet enough so only she hears him use her name. “But hold the rest of yourself still, and try to relax.”

If they didn’t have an audience, he would feel bold enough to put his hands on her waist to encourage her to relax her stomach muscles too, but as it is, he just tells her what he would rather show her. When she’s more relaxed, arm tense and core muscles strong, Killian smiles.

“You aim by staring down the barrel and, when you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

He steps back, and there’s a quiet silence, everyone holding their breath. Emma winks one eye closed, aiming across the glade at the log. There’s a few moments of silence until she pulls the trigger, the gun nearly deafeningly loud as the bullet explodes out of it. The log shatters as the bullet blows through it, sending pieces of bark and woods flying through the air and showering the ground around with debris.

The Musketeers and Aurora burst into applause, and Emma’s mouth drops open in shock.

“I hit it!”

“I knew you could do it! You’re a natural.” Killian takes the gun from her with a broad grin. “I’ll reload it, and you can have another go.”

Emma nods eagerly, grinning widely, but before Killian can re-load the gun, Lancelot gets abruptly to his feet and holding out his hand for quiet.

“Wait, wait. Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Will asks through a mouthful of bread, squinting in the same direction Lancelot is looking.

He’s hardly finished asking the question when there’s a loud crunching of leaves, and to Killian’s horror, a dozen men emerge from the trees, swords and clubs and maces in hand.

“There you are,” one of them says pleasantly, but his hands tighten around the heavy club menacingly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

He’s staring straight at Emma, a lopsided grin on his face and a dark gleam to his eyes, and fear grips Killian’s heart. Emma has already paled, eyes wide at the approaching thugs, and Killian can sense her thought as if she said it out loud – _not again_.

On instinct, Killian moves to stand in front of Emma while he surveys the thugs. His heart sinks – they are far too many of them, more than double their numbers.

Robin’s done the same calculation, and all pretense of trying to fight them off disappears as he shouts, “To the horses!”

Killian grabs Emma’s hand, pushing her ahead of him as they run in the opposite direction, racing back towards the horses. But some of the bandits are fast, and before everyone can mount their horses, they’re there, having cut through the heavy brush to end up between their little group and the horses. They all have weapons drawn and manic glows to their eyes, and one of them even lets out a deranged little laugh.

Behind him, Emma tenses, her grip on his hand tightening as two brutes step towards them. He’s loathe to step away from her, but he has no choice.

The first is surprisingly easy to dispatch, a blundering oaf who runs at Killian with a club and an astounding lack of grace. Killian ducks, feeling the wind whistle over his head, and sticks his leg out to catch the man’s feet as he charges forward. The man stumbles and as Killian’s rising back up, he shoves his weight into the man, feeling the satisfying crunch of the man’s nose breaking as Killian’s elbow contacts it.

The man drops, howling in pain, and Killian kicks him in the gut too for good measure before stepping over him, twisting as he goes so he’s out of reach of the second brute’s sword.

The second’s momentum is now off balance, the arc of the sword sending him forward, and Killian takes advantage. He reaches out, grabbing the man’s sword arm, and twists it, the man yelling out in pain as his elbow joint strains against its socket. Killian twists his arm even more, forcing the man to his knees.

“Get away!”

The female voice shouts loud from behind him and he risks a glance over his shoulder; for what seems like the tenth time in two minutes, his stomach drops.

A third bandit has sidestepped passed Killian, approaching Emma and Aurora with a heavy, purposeful stride. They’re backed up against the edge of a small slope leading down to another arm of the stream with nowhere else to go. Though Emma’s the one with the pistol, Aurora has stepped in front of her, protective and fierce, and she shouts again, “Get away from us!”

The man doesn’t even blink, swinging out at Aurora, hitting her across the face with his fist. Killian shouts and Emma screams as Aurora stumbles, falling right into her and knocking her off balance. With all Aurora’s weight pressed upon her, Emma loses her footing, falling backwards over the slope and disappearing from sight.

Killian lets out a roar as her blonde head disappears, and kicks out at the man he’s fighting with enough ferocity to knock him off his feet. He slams the hilt of his sword down on the man’s head, not pausing to check if he even knocked the man out before he’s running to where Emma fell.

Aurora is on the ground now, moaning and clutching her head, and the man who hit her is looming over her now, drawing back a brutal club. Killian yells out in alarm, but Lancelot gets there first, running the man through, back to front, with his sword in a fluid, single motion.

He chokes, dropping his weapon that, by chance, just misses Aurora. The man clutches at his stomach as Lancelot pulls his sword out roughly, a scattering of blood spraying the trees in a wide arc.

The man collapses to the ground, dead, as Killian reaches them, skidding to a stop next to Aurora. She’s still conscious, an ugly welt in the shape of knuckles forming on her right cheek and temple, and before Killian check her any further, Lancelot is there, pushing him to the side.

“Get the queen. I’ve got her.”

He doesn’t need telling twice; Killian approaches the slope Emma tumbled over, and to his immense relief, she’s at the bottom of the hill, getting to her feet and untangling her legs from her dress. He slips and slides down the slick hill, loosing his grip on the leaves and colliding right with her, nearly knocking them both down this time.

He stabilizes her, hands gripping her shoulders tightly, and quickly surveys her for any signs of injury.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She wipes away the leaves and dirt from her face, pulling branches that have become entangled in her hair. “Where’s Aurora?”

“Lancelot got her. She’ll be okay. Come on. We have to get to the horses.”

With the sound of swords and screaming going above where they came from, Killian and Emma hurry along the base of the slope, clambering up to the higher level several feet further down. They’ve gripped hands again, and when they try to ascend the hill, they nearly slide back down the slope several times, resorting to half-hauling each other forwards. At the top of the slope, the horses, neighing and screeching, are kicking out at the bandits, creating a wide berth around them and somehow the Musketeers have mounted them, slashing out with swords at the bandits who are brave enough to step closer and try to pull them off.

“Go, go!” Robin cries, catching sight of Killian and Emma merging over the edge, dozens of feet away from the fray. “Let’s go!”

Lancelot, with a dozy Aurora seated in front of him, thunders by Killian and Emma, so close they both have to step back out of the way and nearly end up slipping down the slope again.

Robin gallops right up to them, reining in his horse and leaning down at the same time to beckon Emma forward.

“Quickly, quickly.”

Killian helps Emma onto Robin’s horse, boosting her upwards, and the moment she’s seated behind him, they’re off, racing after Lancelot and Aurora. Will, on a separate horse, doesn’t slow down as he approaches Killian and he is forced to grabs his outstretched arm, jumping and using every muscle in his body to twist in the air enough to land behind him, landing hard and painfully on the horse.

The bandits are shouting in anger, but they don’t have horses, or at least they’re not nearby. For a few moments, it appears they’ve lost them, but the Musketeers keep their pace steady, all the horses galloping at full speed up the hill towards the convent. It’s their only hope for sanctuary at this point.

Up close, the building is more like a fort than an abbey. Three storey stone walls surround the internal building, the walls of both dripping with overgrown moss and ivy. A heavily fortified wooden door bars their entrance to the convent, and Robin jumps from his horse, banging on the door with as much force as he can muster.

“Open the door!”

It feels like forever, the horses pawing nervously at the ground and Killian glancing behind him every time the wind so much as blows, but a small slot in the door slides open. A young woman peers through it, her pretty face framed by a nun’s habit and she narrows her eyes.

“State your business.”

“We seek sanctuary,” Robin says, the urgency in his voice palpable. “It’s an emergency.”

The nun surveys him, suspicious, and her eyes flicker to his uniform. Her frown deepens.

“You are soldiers,” she says, disdainfully. “This is a house of God, for the brides of Christ. What type of sanctuary do you want?”

At once, Killian understands her caution – all the young nun can see is a group of men, trying to get into a convent of women, and Emma must too. She dismounts from the horse, sliding off and striding to Robin’s side so the nun can see her.

“Please, Sister. We need your help.” 

The nun stares at Emma, clearly not having realized a woman was among the men, and then realization dawns in her eyes. She glances back to Robin, to the fleur-de-lis pauldron on his shoulder, and her eyes widen.

“You are the queen,” she blurts, and Emma nods.

“We need sanctuary. There are men after us, trying to kill us, and my maid is injured. She needs someone to look at her.”

The nun stares at Emma for a long moment, an unreadable expression crossing her features. For a terrifying moment, Killian thinks she’s about to slide the slot closed, but then she nods.

“Give me a moment.”

Like before, it feels like an eternity before there’s any progress. Killian is about ready to scale the walls when with a large creak and groan, the large wooden doors slowly swing open, welcoming them into the safety of the convent’s courtyard.

They bring the horses in with them too. When they’re safely inside the gates, the heavy doors locked and sealed behind them, everyone dismounting and taking a deep breath of relief, Killian realizes one Musketeer is not among them.

“Where’s David?” he demands, instantly fearing the worst.

“I sent him back to Paris,” Lancelot explains, helping a woozy Aurora to stand. “We need reinforcements.”

Relieved, and though he’s not religious, with the symbols of God all around him in the courtyard, he can’t help but send up a prayer for his friend’s safety on the journey and hopes he’ll return soon.

The nun who welcomed them disappeared into the building when they entered, but now she reappears, leading a trail of other women into the courtyard. More than a few of them cast the group hostile glances (some, Killian notes with a touch of annoyance, directed purposefully at Emma), but they all curtsey to the queen and murmur a welcome. An older woman takes one look at Aurora, swaying on her feet even with Lancelot’s arm around her to steady her, and ushers them away, muttering about the brutality of the outside world.

Another nun appears from the main building, and though Killian doesn’t know much about how nuns rank themselves, it is clear she is the one in charge, with the way the others quiet and move out of her way.

“Your Majesty,” this nun says, curtseying. “Welcome. I’m the Mother Superior of this convent, St. Meissa.”

Emma smiles. “Thank you for offering us sanctuary, Mother Superior. You have saved our lives.”

She inclines her head. “Of course. It is our duty to provide sanctuary to _any_ traveller in danger.”

A couple of the nuns shuffle their feet, nudging each other at her emphasis, and Killian narrows his eyes. He reasons it could be that they simply see them as a threat to the entire convent, but he’s abruptly too aware of the politics of the situation; the Protestant queen in a Catholic nunnery seeking their help.

The others sense it too, shifting their weight to stand closer to Emma. Mother Superior notices, of course, and plasters a welcoming smile on her face.

“Come along. I’ll show you around.”

She gestures them all to follow her back inside the convent, and once they’re in the cool stone hall, leaving the other nuns behind, she speaks again.

“I apologize for my sisters’ ... surprise. It is not often the queen herself appears on our doorstep.”

Emma nods politely. “I understand.”

“But you _are_ most welcome here,” Mother Superior assures. “And you will be safe. Our convent is one of the most fortified in all of France.”

“Thank God for that,” Emma murmurs, and Mother Superior smiles.

“Indeed.”

Ever the worrier, Robin inquires about the safety of the abbey, and Mother Superior agrees to show him around, but not before turning to Emma and saying, “You may have my room, Your Majesty. It’s on the east side, facing the cliff side. I’ll send a sister to take you up.” 

Mother Superior leads Robin and Will away, already explaining the thick stone walls and fortified door, but Killian doesn’t move to follow them.

“Are you sure you are okay?” he asks, looking Emma up and down. The bottom of her riding dress is soaked in mud and ripped, the rest stained with dirt.

“Yes,” Emma replies, and she smiles gently at the concern on Killian’s face. “Really, I’m fine. All those leaves broke my fall.”

Killian chuckles as footsteps begin to echo through the halls. A young woman appears in a doorway off to the side. Her steps falter and she lets out an exclamation of shock.

“Killian?”

He turns, and all he sees is a nun, petite and blonde and blue-eyed, until his brain sorts through her features and his mouth drops open.

“ _Tink_?”

He steps forward as she does too, meeting her halfway for a tight embrace.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, releasing her and holding her at arm’s length to survey her in the nun’s habit with raised eyebrows. “I thought you were going to a convent in Bordeaux!”

Tink waves away his questions. “What about _you_? You’re a Musketeer? I thought you were going to join the English –” she cuts off abruptly, realizing Emma is there too, and she smiles brightly at her. “Excuse me, Your Majesty. It was rude of me not to greet you first.”

“Don’t worry.” She pauses, looking at Tink curiously, and continues, “Did he say your name was _Tink_?”

Tink sighs dramatically, and Killian grins. “A nickname I gave her,” he explains at Emma’s bewildered look. “Because of the sound of her laugh.” He looks to Tink and frowns. “I can’t recall what your actual given name is.”

“Something unpronounceable,” she replies cheerily. “It’s Sister Rose now anyways.”

A teenage girl carrying a pile of bedsheets and blankets enters the hall, curtseying low to Emma and nodding her head to Tink.

Tink nods back at her, and turns to Emma. “I’ll show you to Mother Superior’s room, Your Majesty. This way.”

She leads Emma out of the room, sweeping up the bedsheets from the young girl in the doorway. Killian follows them out of the room and a few steps down the hall, Tink pauses, looking back to him with a questioning eyebrow.

He shrugs, hand moving to his sword at his belt. “Constant protection.”

Tink rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and she thrusts the heavy pile of sheets and blankets at Killian with much more force than necessary. “You can carry the bedding.”

Their footfalls echo through the old abbey, Tink leading the way to the back of the building. She pauses at the end of the hallway to pick up a candle, sending dancing shadows up along the stone walls.

“Careful,” Tink warns, lifting the candle higher as they approach a set of old stairs. “There’s a gouge in one of the stone steps we haven’t had a chance to fix yet; Sister Astrid dropped a case of jarred peaches on it two weeks ago.”

Mother Superior’s quarters are at the top of the short eastern tower. There’s a small receiving chamber at the top of the stairs, a half-ajar door leading to a small bedroom. A neatly made bed is pressed up against the far wall beside a tiny end table littered with religious artifacts. A rickety wooden dresser stands opposite the bed, with a table and chair in the other corner, a single square window letting in filtered sunlight through a thin cotton curtain.

“It’s a bit small,” Tink says, almost apologetically, “but –”

“It’s perfect, Sister,” Emma interrupts, smiling. “Please send my thanks to your Mother Superior for her kindness. I understand what risk all of you are taking by allowing us sanctuary, and I want you all to know I am very grateful.”

Tink smiles in recognition, and plucks a simple, pale pink dress off the pile of bedding in Killian’s arms.

“This is one of Sister Astrid’s dresses from before she joined the service. I think she’s about the same size as you.” She places it on the top of the dresser, and retreats to the doorway, standing beside Killian. “Dinner will be in several hours. You are welcome to join us all in the Great Hall, or I can have Sister Olivia bring your meal if you feel safer here.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, I would be honoured to join you all. Thank you, Sister Rose.”

Emma drops into the rickety chair, beginning to unlace her boots, and Killian steps out into the hall with Tink, closing the door behind him to give Emma some privacy.

“Thank you, Tink. Really.”

She inclines her head. “Of course. It is our duty to protect anyone who seeks sanctuary with us. Especially the queen.”

“Even though she’s a Protestant and you’re Catholic?”

Tink levels Killian with a cool glare, lifting her chin, but Killian can’t find it in himself to regret the question. He saw the looks nuns gave her when they arrived, when they realized _who_ they’d be giving refuge to. For the most part, Emma’s background as a Protestant is quietly tolerated in the rest of France, but it’s not as simple as that for these nuns.

“Our sanctuary is for everyone, Killian,” Tink says shortly. “Even the Protestant Queen of France. And,” she adds, with a pointed nudge to his chest, “her Protestant Musketeer.”

He nods, chastised. “I know. I’m sorry, Tink. Thank you for offering us shelter.”

She looks down to the pile of bedding in his arms and her coolness disappears, a spark of mischief appears in her eyes instead. “Now can you change the bed or do you want me to send up one of the novices to do it?”

He grins back at her, and shifts his arms out of her grasp. “I know how to change bedsheets.”

Tink smirks a very un-nun-like smirk. “I’ll bet you do.”

He chuckles, and shakes his head. “It’s good to see you, Tink. Even if it is under such troubling circumstances.”

She smiles. “It’s been too long, Killian. We’ll have to catch up later when she’s settled in.”

Killian tenses; catching up with Tink will mean talking about his past, and he has no desire to do that. But he just smiles tightly and nods. “Of course.”

He glances back to the closed door then, and Tink must mistake his discomfort with the idea of talking about his past for worry, because she rests a hand on his arm in comfort.

“Don’t worry, Killian. She’ll be safe here. This convent is one of the most fortified buildings in all of France.”

He nods, and she leaves with another pat to his arm. When her footsteps disappear, Killian knocks on the bedroom door.

“I have your bedsheets, milady. May I put them down or should I wait a moment?”

The door swings open; Emma is still fully dressed, save her riding boots, and she gestures him in.

He enters the room, placing the bedsheets on her bed, and Emma watches him closely. There’s an edge to her eyes, guarded and apprehensive. “How on earth do you know a nun?”

“She’s an old friend. She was my neighbour when I lived in Calais as a child.” He catches her gaze, and at the look in her eye, he smirks, unable to help himself. “ _Just_ a friend.”

Emma’s smile in return is smug, lightness returned to her now and all traces of guardedness gone. “Good. I wouldn’t want rumours about you and a nun to start circulating; think of her reputation, Sir Jones.”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Yes, that would be damaging. A woman married to God and having an affair with a Musketeer, what would the Parisians think.”

Emma laughs, removing her riding jacket and dropping it onto the small table. “I’m glad you can joke about things like that.” She picks up the pink dress, unfolding it and holding it up against herself. “I haven’t worn a plain dress like this in years. I don’t even think it has a corset.”

“I should have asked Tink to send up one of the younger sisters to help you change,” Killian says, looking back to the doorway as if she was still lingering out there. “I bet one of them used to be a lady’s maid –”

“I’m sure you can be of assistance.”

Killian turns back to her so sharply he hears all the vertebrae in his neck crack. Emma has turned to face the opposite wall, unhooking the matching layer of vest to her skirt from around her torso. She looks pointedly at him over her shoulder as she tosses the vest onto the bed.

“I can’t do the rest myself, Killian.”

At the use of his first name, he nearly stumbles, a thrill shooting right through him. Whatever Tink’s insinuations about him, when he approaches Emma, it feels like he hasn’t done this in years. He’s undressed women before, usually with far less care and more urgency, and never like this.

The fabric of Emma’s clothing is one of the finest he has ever felt, even considering she is wearing sturdier riding clothing than what she’d normally wear. The gown is also simpler in and of itself, slimmer and worn without any large hoop under the skirt and just over a plain chemise.

Its laced expertly up her back, the ribbons wiry and sturdy, and Killian unthreads them carefully, his fingers moving slowly over the ribbons. The heavy outer gown falls away when he’s done, Emma stepping free from it, and he sweeps it up before it lands on the floor, laying it across the bottom of the small bed. Emma is now only in a simple white shift, her waist still bound by the tight boning of her corset.

His mouth feeling dry and blood pounding in his head, Killian sets to work on the laces of that too, far too aware of how intimate this is. It takes a few moments for him to loosen it sufficiently and Emma breathes out a heavy sigh relief, wiggling slightly to loosen the corset even more.

“Thank you,” she says, holding the corset against herself and turning to face him.

He ducks his head in recognition, and steps back, trying to force some formality into his tone and failing miserably. “You’re welcome.”

Emma reaches out, grasping his arm to pull him back towards her, her eyes intense and earnest. “Not just for helping me with this. For teaching me how to fight these past few days on the road. I know – you didn’t have to.”

Killian scratches behind his ear, and abandons all pretense of correctness. They’re alone, for the first time in days, and he wants to speak freely.

 “I have to admit ... it wasn’t a purely selfless. It gives me an opportunity to spend more time with you.”

Emma smiles, an edge to her eyes now, and she steps even closer, running her hand up his arm, hooking her arm around the back of his neck.

“We have some time together right now.”

“Aye,” he replies, voice dropping an octave as he stares at her, and he knows he couldn’t stop this even if he wanted to.

He lifts one hand to Emma’s cheek, cupping it and pulling her face closer to his. His eyes close and this time it’s Killian who presses his lips to hers first, feeling her mouth curve into a smile before she’s kissing him back.

(A smug part of him wants to point out her _one time thing_ hadn’t even lasted a week, but a stronger part of him shouts at him to shut up and just enjoy the moment.)

He wraps one arm around her, tugging her closer to him, and his other hand runs through her hair, fiddling with the clasp that kept her hair up until it comes loose. Her hair cascades down around her shoulders, tickling his hands where it hits him, the smell of her perfume floating around them in an intoxicating cloud.

He walks them backwards, and they end up pressed against the wall near the door, Emma’s clothing held up by the wall. Her motions are identical to his, one hand around his lower back and the other in his hair, pulling him closer and closer. She nips at his lower lip with her teeth, demanding and wanting, and Killian groans into her mouth, the sound more a growl than a moan. Emma smiles again, a pleased moan escaping her as Killian presses himself fully against her.

Down the hallway outside the larger chamber, there’s a loud clattering and thudding, followed by a string of swearing. Emma and Killian spring apart as if burned, Killian nearly stumbling over the corner of the small bed and Emma jumps to the side, eyes wide.

“Out,” she whispers, one hand back to grasping her corset around her, the other on his chest as she shoves him towards the door.

He half-stumbles out into the receiving chamber, the door swinging shut firmly behind him. He is just leaning himself against the wall outside her door as if he was there the whole time when Will emerges from the staircase, muttering to himself.

“Hey,” he says, upon noticing Killian. He waves a hand airily in his direction, and then back down the stairs. “I, uh, tripped on one of the steps.”

Killian purses his lips to suppress a smile, thanking whatever God is looking over them for making Will clumsy. “You’re a constant show of grace, Scarlet.”

He snorts, and mutters another curse, before tilting his head towards the closed door. “How’s the queen?”

His heartbeat jumps again. “She’s … uh, resting. Long day and all.”

Something about Killian’s expression must’ve alerted Will, because he cocks his head to the side, peering suspiciously at him.

“You alright, mate?”

“’Course,” Killian replies, gruffly. He steps away from the wall, and runs a hand through his hair, hoping it doesn’t appear too messy from Emma’s hands. “I’ll go talk with Robin and Lancelot about the plans for tomorrow and you’ll take the queen to dinner later?”

Will frowns. “Sure, but Killian, what –”

Killian doesn’t wait any longer, brushing by Will and down the stairs. He himself nearly trips on the gouge from the jarred peaches, so distracted that he didn’t even see it. When he’s alone at the bottom, with the silent walls around him, he leans against one of them, pressing his head against the cold stone, willing his racing heart to steady and failing spectacularly.

He is in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter:   
> http://hook-and-star-ink.tumblr.com/post/166342729712/if-the-stars-align-chapter-8-by-swanslieutenant   
> http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/166330588073/if-the-stars-align-chapter-8-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we're over the halfway mark. Hope you enjoy!

As the nuns promised, the convent is secure and unable to be breached. The bandits attempted to break into the convent by scaling the walls and a few of the nuns scared them off by pouring hot water (intended for a bath for Emma) over their heads, sending them shrieking and screaming back down the hill. ~~~~

After that, the rest of the bandits retreated, slinking back into the forest like shadows. There’s a thin plume of black smoke rising above the treeline, wafting away from the convent with the wind, and they know the bandits haven’t left yet.

Killian stays downstairs all afternoon, helping out where he can and trying very hard not to think about Emma upstairs; if he does, he knows he’d turn right around and walk back upstairs.

To keep himself busy, he checks on Aurora in the convent’s small nursing quarters. She’s better, unconscious from sleep now instead of the hit to her head, and the nun in charge tells him she will be better in a few days and not to worry.

Though the convent looks secure, he, Robin, and Lancelot explore it further, trying to find any weaknesses. The entire building is sturdy, but the wine cellar appears to be the least secured. An old delivery door, unused for years, is only blocked off by several crates of old, dusty wine. To counteract the weak point, they shove even more crates and heavy wooden benches from the chapel above in front of it and set up a rotation of watching the door through the night.

At dinner, with Tink having volunteered to watch the wine cellar while they have something to eat, the four Musketeers sit down with Emma and Mother Superior at a small table in the dining hall.

No one says anything, picking at their cabbage soup until its lukewarm and lumpy. Everyone is too on edge to have much of an appetite, not when there are dozens of bandits outside the gates, waiting for them.

Killian feels a twinge of guilt as some of the nuns pass by the dining hall, peering in with looks that range between fear and anger. The Musketeers have brought this threat to the door of the convent, and though Killian knows there was no other option, it doesn’t sit right with him. He may not share their religion, but their devotion to their values has offered them shelter and now they could pay for that with their lives.

Reinforcements are at least two days away at the most. If David is riding as hard as he can and if he rides all night, he should be back in Paris by tomorrow night, meaning another whole night for reinforcements to get here by the late afternoon of the second day. 

Two days of sitting here, not knowing what is going to happen next.

His eyes slide to Emma, staring unseeing at her soup and fiddling with her spoon. They haven’t had a chance to speak since the afternoon in her room, and since they noticed the bandits’ fire, the mood in the barracks has darkened. Any earlier lightheartedness has gone up in smoke with the flames.

“I can’t eat,” Emma says after a while of silence, pushing her full bowl away. “Mother Superior, will you take me to see Aurora?” 

Mother Superior pushes away her own uneaten bowl. “Of course.”

Killian starts to rise but Robin stands at the same time. For a moment, they stare at each other, before Robin waves Killian back down.

“Finish your supper, Jones. I’ll go.”

There’s not really a way he can argue, so he sinks back down. Killian catches Emma’s gaze, a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything either as Robin leads the way out of the room.

When the three of them are gone, any pretense of eating the awful soup is over. Killian, Will, and Lancelot split up their duties for the night’s watch. They’ve got two areas they want for surveillance – the wine cellar and Emma’s quarters. The view to the outside gates is best from Emma’s quarters, so whoever guards her will also be watching that wall too.

Killian is, of course, hoping to be assigned upstairs, but to his disappointment, Lancelot sends Will up there, ordering Killian down into the wine cellar instead.

When he trudges downstairs, Tink is seated on a barrel, staring with glazed over eyes at the sealed door, and she jerks in surprise as Killian enters the room. He chuckles at her, and she lets out a sigh of relief and hauls herself to her feet.

“Thank God. I’m starving.”

He snorts, and drops down onto the barrel she just rose from. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

She’s already headed to the door, her stomach growling, but she pauses, looking back to him, a strange look in her eyes. Killian tenses; he’d hoped she’d forgotten her desire earlier to catch up, but it appears not.

“Tink,” he starts, warningly, but she ignores him.

“You have to tell me how you ended up in this situation, Killian.” She gestures at his fleur-de-lis pauldron, shaking her head in disbelief. “A Musketeer? Really? I thought I’d lost my senses when I saw you earlier.”

Killian sighs, not wanting to get into it right now (or ever), and he stares at the wall instead of her. “It’s a long story.”

Tink snorts, and her growling stomach forgotten, moves across the room and plops back down on the barrel beside him. “I think I can make the time.”

He doesn’t say anything, and Tink rolls her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll start the story, shall I? Last I saw you, you and Liam were going off to London, to join the English Navy. All seemed set in stone, so what happened?”

This is exactly why he didn’t want to talk about it. He stiffens at the mention of his brother’s name, and Tink notices, her brow furrowing.

“What? What’s wrong?”

A lump grows in his throat, and he has to clear it several times before answering. “Liam. He’s ... he’s dead.”

Honest shock crosses her face, and she closes her eyes briefly and Killian wonders if she’s praying for Liam’s soul, long gone already to the depths of Davey Jones.

“I’m so sorry, Killian. What happened?”

He hesitates; he hasn’t talked about Liam for years, mostly to keep his past as an Englishman private, but also because it’s too painful. He lost his brother, his only companion, his mentor, his captain, in the blink of an eye, no time to say goodbye. Talking about it makes his hands shake with anger, his memories dipping down a dark path, and it’s better to just avoid it and pretend he never had a brother.

But he can’t do that here; Tink knew Liam too.

“We did join the Navy,” he says, voice rough. “And, for a while, it was wonderful. Liam excelled to captain, and I to lieutenant. The way we were going, we’d have made the admiralty in no time.”

He thinks of the way he’d once stood, proud as anything with the English crest on his chest, and his chest aches as he tells the next part of the story. “But one day, we were out on a mission, and we were attacked by Spanish privateers. It was awful, and Liam ... Liam didn’t make it.”

Tink sucks in a deep breath. “Killian. I’m so sorry.”

Killian can almost feel the rage he felt then, resurfacing as he remembers why he left the Navy after Liam died, and he clenches his hands into fists.

“Even though they were Spanish, the English king refused to condemn the privateers. He was trying to broker a treaty with the Spanish, and feared this would put it all on hold. The lives of ten Navy soldiers wasn’t worth it to him. So it wasn’t worth it to me to stay with England either.”

“So you returned to France and joined the Musketeers?” She says it incredulously, and he nods.

“It’s more complicated than that, but I didn’t want to join a merchant ship again and the French Navy is almost non-existent. I’d been trained as a solider so ... here I am. Serving the French royalty instead of the English.”

Tink sits up a bit straighter, and narrows her eyes at him. “And they’re okay with you being English?”

Killian doesn’t answer, and Tink shakes her head darkly. “Killian.”

“Emma knows. And the captain of the Musketeers. But no one else does.”

She sighs, and levels him a severe look. “I won’t say anything, but Killian ...”

He knows she’s thinking of the current war with England, the anti-English sentiment he’s sure has made its way out to her convent, and he smiles tightly.

“I’ll be careful, Tink. I’ve been so far. Don’t worry.”

She looks unconvinced, but her stomach growls loudly again. It’s clear she wants to interrogate him further, another loud growl has her getting to her feet with a sigh, and she leaves him alone to his thoughts, still shaking her head in dismay.

The moment she’s gone, Killian pulls out his flask from an inner pocket of his coat. It’s already half drained of rum – the days on the road having done its trick – but he takes a generous swig of the remainder, letting it burn its way down his throat and into his belly.

He tries to focus on anything but his past as the night goes on, the hours dragging and long. But now that it’s been drudged up from the depth, as unforgettable as a hurricane, he has no choice. 

He wonders what Liam would think of him now, sitting in the bottom of an old convent, guarding the French queen against bandits trying to kill her. He probably would laugh and tell Killian to get his head on straight and get the hell out of here. Liam had had no love for the French monarchy, preferring to pledge his loyalty to the monarch of their English roots ... how ironic it was that king who had let his death go unremarked or avenged.

If they’d been apart of the French army and Liam had died in that service in the way he did, Killian knows Emma would never let the treatment he received happen here. With his rank and the way he died, he’d have been honoured as dying for his country, not ignored and swept under the rug as if he never existed.

Killian leans his head against the wall behind him, tucking the flask back away after another swig. He wonders what Liam would think of Emma. She’s good and kind, like him, so he bets they’d have gotten along. Liam would have been honoured to serve a good queen like her instead of a selfish and cruel king.

Speaking of Emma, he wishes he could go upstairs, to talk to her, to see how she’s doing. There’s not much he can do for her in terms of reassuring her worries, but he’d be at least able to offer her some company, and maybe he himself wouldn’t feel as lonely as he does now.

But as if the universe is trying to send him a message, somehow, he doesn’t end up on a rotation standing guard outside Emma’s room, instead spending most of the night watching the cellar door. It’s the opposite of restful, alternating between his thoughts dragging him back to Liam’s death and the creaking and cracking of the old convent making him feel like every nerve he has is on full alert.

It’s exhausting, and hours later, when Will comes to relieve him, he trudges back to the makeshift bedroom set up for them in an old study room, his eyes drooping. He drops onto a cot, asleep before he’s even fully horizontal, drained by the day.  

A hammering sound permeates his dreams, sometimes as galloping horses or the rocking of a ship against heavy waves. When he wakes, warm morning sunlight lighting the room, the sound continues and he realizes it’s not just in his dream.

When he’s dressed, he stumbles into the large antechamber outside the chapel, the room they’ve set up as their makeshift headquarters. Lancelot, Will, Emma, Mother Superior, and Tink are seated around a table, papers scattered all about it, and they look up in unison as Killian enters.

“Finally,” Will mutters, rolling his eyes. “It’s half eleven already.”

Killian ignores him, dropping into the free seat between Lancelot and Tink. “What’s going on? What’s that sound?”

“They’re building something,” Lancelot grits out, glaring out the window.  

Goosebumps raise on the back of Killian’s neck. He can’t see anything but the convent courtyard when he looks out the window, and he frowns.

“What is it?”

“We’re not sure yet. Robin’s upstairs, keeping an eye on it.”

Apprehension growing, Killian looks over to Emma. She’s frowning, a crease of worry between her brows, and Killian knows that whatever these bandits are up to, it’s not going to be good.

As the day goes on, they realize what the bandits are building – a scaffold. Killian joined Robin at the top of the north tower after he had a quick breakfast (or lunch, as Will so sweetly put it), and they’ve been watching the progress of the bandits for hours now.

“They can’t get in through the walls, so they’re gonna try to go over.”

Tink thinks they should drop torches on the half-assembled structure, but Mother Superior is afraid the dry grass outside will ignite and surround the convent with fire. Emma suggests the hot water again, and they do attempt that. Killian and the other Musketeers crawl along the top of the large wall, pushing sloshing buckets ahead of them, but one of the bandits catches sight of them and fires his musket at them, so they’re forced to retreat, full water buckets abandoned on the top of the wall.

After that, they’re unsure of what to do. Robin and Lancelot retreat to keep watch, and Killian, Will, Tink, and Emma assemble the nuns in the chapel. It’s looking like this is going to descend into a fight, and they need all the weapons they can get. 

Its a pretty disappointing haul – there are gardening tools (shovels, stakes, weeding hooks, and hatchets), fire stokers, and kitchen knives. Tink finds three rusty swords and Will finds an old barrel of gun powder hidden away at the back of one of the storerooms, but other than that, they’ve only got the weapons the Musketeers had when they came in.

Emma is quiet the entire search, her eyes darkening each time one of the nuns returns with a new garden tool. When they’ve collected everything, laid out on the kitchen table, it’s more pitiful than Killian could’ve imagined.

He and Will exchange a dark look, but Tink hardens her jaw and takes it upon herself to arm the rest of the nuns. Will follows after her, muttering about cleaning the rust off the swords, but Killian lingers in the kitchen, noticing Emma hasn’t moved.

“Emma?” he asks, moving closer. “Are you coming?”

She looks up from the weapons, her eyes watery. Killian steps forward instantly, hand out to comfort her.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

She steps back, away from his hand, her voice hoarse as she says, “This is all my fault.”

“No, no, it’s not –”

“It is,” she snaps, wiping at her eyes. “They’re after _me_. Aurora’s injured, all these nuns are in danger, _you’re_ in danger. We have no weapons other than shovels and rusty swords, and those men are out there building a scaffold to storm this convent, and it’s all because I’m the queen.”

“Emma –”

She turns away, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Just give me a minute please.”

He hesitates, hand still outstretched towards her. He doesn’t want to leave her, not when she looks like she’s going to burst into tears, but she’s stiff and tense, angled away from him, and he respects her wishes, turning away and closing the door quietly behind him.

After that, Killian doesn’t get a chance to talk to Emma until dinner. He gets busy helping Robin and Lancelot show some of the nuns basic defensive moves, and though Emma comes out to watch, her eyes ringed in red and mouth dipped in a frown, she doesn’t join in.

Dinner that night is the strangest one Killian’s ever had. The nuns have warmed up to the Musketeers after the afternoon defense lessons, and they join them in the dining hall, sitting interspersed between the Musketeers, soldiers and nuns sitting together as equals.

As well, despite their earlier unfriendliness, most of the nuns have warmed to Emma and are now clustered around her, asking her all about her life in Paris. Some are younger daughters of nobles, eager for news of any shared acquaintances, and others are girls from simple country origins, wide-eyed at the description of the lavish Parisian life. 

Though a lingering unhappiness lurks in Emma’s eyes, some brightness returns to her as she talks about the dances at the Louvre, the swans in her garden, the wedding they were supposed to be attending.

But that only lasts until the end of dinner, when the conversation fades out and is replaced by the incessant hammering of the bandits outside. She pushes away her food, and goes up to her chambers, Lancelot following her for the first shift of guard duty, and the other Musketeers spread out for their own positions.  

Killian starts out in the cellar, and like last night, every creak and crack of the convent settling is as loud and as threatening as a shot. The hammering continues all night, becoming such a constant rhythm that in the moment it does pause, Killian keeps imagining he still hears it.

After a few hours, Lancelot clambers down the stairs, startling Killian half-to-death. Lancelot laughs at him, patting him on the back and shooing him away.

“Get some sleep, Killian. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Not one to argue with that, he treks off to the makeshift bedroom. Robin is the only one there, sound asleep on a mat on the floor, and Killian settles himself down on his own, trying to get comfortable on the stone floor. The blankets are lumpy and smell vaguely of mothballs and with the danger outside, sleep is a long time coming.

When he does manage to drift off, his dreams are composed of the past few days of sword fighting with Emma, her bright smile and the warm sun glinting off her blonde hair. But they twist into darker nightmares, the bandits are scaling the walls of the convent while everyone’s asleep. The bandits are a mix of the men he saw out on the road and the rogue Bastille guards from last month and they slaughter everyone inside with razor sharp knives, screams reverberating through the stone walls, Emma’s the loudest of all.

Killian jolts awake, not sure if it’s from the screams in his nightmare or something else, but for a moment he lies there in the dark, completely disoriented. As his eyes adjust, he realizes there’s a candle in the room, a silhouetted figure moving through the shadows, and his stomach clenches. He sits up, squinting in the darkness, and as the figure shifts, the candlelight catches his face, illuminating the features of Will Scarlet. Relief floods Killian, and he lets out a hard breath of air, and running a hand over his face, dropping back onto the mat.

_Paranoid much, Jones?_

“Wake up, mate,” Will hisses, nudging Robin’s sleeping body with his foot, and Robin jerks awake.

“Wha – what’s goin’ on?”

“It’s your shift with the queen.”

Killian, suddenly feeling wide awake, sits up again. They may just be nightmares, but the sound of Emma’s scream is still reverberating in his, and he needs to see her, to reassure himself it was just a dream.

“I’ll go,” he whispers to Robin, who is still trying to unravel himself from a pile of blankets. “Come get me at dawn or so; I’ll sleep in the morning.”

Robin squints at him, but shrugs and drops back into the blankets, rolling over with a snore.

Other than the hammering going on outside, the convent is quiet. His footsteps seem twice as loud as usual, heavy and echoing down the halls and the staircase as he goes up to the eastern tower.

The door to Emma’s bedroom is open, a candle flickering inside. He expects her to be sound asleep by now, but she’s wide awake, seated in the single dining chair, knees up to her chin and staring out the window.

“Emma?” Killian asks quietly as he stops in the doorway, making her jolt in surprise. “Are you alright?”

“I can’t sleep,” she replies, looking back out the window and leaning her head on her knees. “Not when ... not when they’re out there.” She looks away from the window, her eyes finding his. “Will you sit with me?”

He retrieves a chair from the receiving chamber, setting it beside hers and sitting down. She’s returned to staring out the window, hugging her knees tight, and she’s quiet for a long time, the hammering of the bandits the only sound between them.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly after a moment.

“Henry,” Emma whispers, and Killian’s heart clenches at the sorrow in her voice. “He’ll be wondering where we are. We should have arrived at the halfway point by now.” She pauses, clutching her legs tighter. “I’m afraid he’s going to grow up motherless like I did.”

“He won’t,” Killian promises. “You’re going to see him again, Emma.”

She sighs. “I admire your optimism, Killian, but I don’t share it.” She leans her head against the back wall, and closes her eyes. “Henry, Mary Margaret, Ariel, my other ladies. All the people I love ... I don’t know if I’ll ever seem them again.”

“You will, Emma. I promise.”

Emma continues as if she didn’t hear him. “If I’m not around to protect Henry, Gold will corrupt him. He’ll turn him into a puppet like he’s done to Neal. There are some days I don’t even recognize him anymore, and I can’t let him do that to Henry too.”

Killian is quiet, not sure what to say, and Emma opens her eyes. She regards him quietly for a moment, and then says, “Do you remember that little stream I showed you on the hunt, with the little pile of rocks? Where I hurt my hand? That’s where Neal and I used to go to talk about our dreams for France before Gold got his claws in him. We’d put a little rock there every day we went out, a marker of another day spent planning to make the country great. But now ... its just a reminder none of our dreams were achieved.”

Killian frowns, hating the bitter edge to her tone. “What were your dreams?”

Emma drops her feet to the floor with a sigh. “There were so many. The prison sentences would be re-examined, as would when death was a suitable punishment. The nobles would have stricter guidelines on how much grain they could take away from the farmers and how much they could tax them. All the wars we were fighting would be settled, and all those husbands and fathers and brothers could return home to their families.” She pauses, biting her lip, and her voice is soft when she speaks again. “I wanted to open more orphanages, and make sure they were properly regulated, with adequate food and warmth for the children, to make sure they were all safe and well-cared for.”

She smiles then, lost in memory, and it’s easy to imagine her as the younger woman she had been then, much too young to have the weight of the world on her shoulders but trying her hardest to make it a better place for all.

He rests his hand on hers across her thigh, and squeezes it. “I wish you had gotten a chance to build your France. And when we’re out of here, I know you will one day.”

Though sadness lingers in her eyes, she smiles at him, and tilts her head curiously. “Why do you always say things like that?”

He lifts her hand, pressing his lips to it in a gentle kiss. “Because I believe in you.” 

“Because I’m the queen?” she asks wryly. “That’s what’s gotten us into this mess.”

He chuckles. “No, Emma. Because you’re _you_. If you put your mind to something, whether its telling Cardinal Gold to go to hell or teaching a Musketeer how to dance or learning to fight or living another day to build a better France, one way or another, you’ll get it done.”

The look in her eyes changes, from reminiscent to charged in a moment, and Emma slides forward in her chair so their knees bump.

“There’s one more thing I want to do,” she whispers, and she grabs his collar, pulling him forward and pressing her lips to his.

This kiss is different than their others, less rushed and desperate, tender instead. She edges forward again, and Killian pulls her onto his lap. He breaks away from her lips to kiss up her neck and the side of her jaw.

Emma groans, and she fists her hand in his hair, dragging his face back up to hers to kiss him again. Her tongue slides across his lips, sending fire through every nerve in his body, but she’s a tease, moving to kiss his cheeks, his jaw, her panting breaths ghosting across his skin.

“Bed,” she whispers, and he stands, carrying her in his arms to the small bed, and dropping them both down onto the bed. Emma pulls him closer, hands drifting to the belt at his waist, untucking his shirt as she continues to kiss him.

Though he’s already straining to press Emma into the small mattress and feel her body underneath his, moving from the chair has knocked some reason into him and he pauses. Emma was mourning the potential loss of her future not five minutes ago, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of her emotional state.

He leans his head back, breaking free of her kisses, even when she leans further up to try to continue.

“Wait, Emma, stop.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Emma, you’re upset. We shouldn’t do this. Not when you’re so unhappy –”

She was confused, but there’s a flash of understanding in her eyes, warmth growing in them, and she leans forward to kiss him again, so forcefully Killian forgets what he just said.

“I am upset,” she says when she pauses for breath, leaning back to look into Killian’s eyes. “But I am _not_ doing this because I’m upset. I want this, Killian, I want to be with you before it’s too late. We might not have a tomorrow.”

He searches her eyes for any trace of doubt or uncertainty, but there’s only determination, desire, and a feeling he doesn’t dare put a name to; he’s not sure his heart could survive it.

Emma abruptly pulls back, a shadow crossing her features and a heavy stone wall shuttering over her eyes.

“Unless you don’t want me. I know I’m the queen, I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to do anything because I say so –”

“No, Emma, that’s not it. Of _course_ I want you.”

He leans forward, caressing her cheek softly, and draws her back to him, pressing his lips against hers. It’s a slower kiss, both of them taking their time to explore each other, and he wonders if she looked into his eyes, if she’d see the same expression in his he sees in hers.

When they pause for breath, Killian looks at Emma seriously once more. “You’re sure?”

She smiles, tugging him down beside her and pressing her lips against his own wide grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/166574323768/if-the-stars-align-chapter-9-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter X

Hours later, Killian thinks it’s the morning sunlight that awakens him, streaming in through the tiny window, warm and welcoming. He lies there, listening to Emma’s even breath, the singing morning birds outside, and the rhythmic thumping from the hammering outside.

He frowns. The hammering sounds different this morning, and as his brain wakes up, he realizes it’s not the hammering at all.

It’s footsteps.

He lifts his head, looking out the door just as Robin comes around the corner. Robin’s eyes widen in shock, and he turns on his heel, his footsteps clattering down the stairs as quickly as he’d come up them.

_Shit._

Emma is still asleep, lying on her stomach with her head on his chest, one hand curled possessively around his forearm. At some point in the night, the blanket slipped down to rest over her hips, her bare back covered only with her golden curls, and Killian swears again.

He shifts out from under her, easing her head onto his pillow. She stirs a bit, closing her hand around his arm in a vice grip. He pries her fingers away, loathe as he is to leave. He dresses quietly, pulling on his pants and shirt, and slips from the room, off to find Robin to do damage control.

He’s already retreated back to the small antechamber downstairs. He stares intently out a window, as if trying to burn a hole in the glass, and Killian strides up to him, scratching behind his ear.

“Robin, about what you just saw –”

“I didn’t see anything. I was asleep all night, and you came to me in the morning to change shifts. Right?”

Killian swallows, and nods. “Right, of course –”

“ _You slept with the queen_?!”

Well, that hadn’t lasted long.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Robin hisses, jabbing a finger into Killian’s chest, hard enough to push him backwards. “I warned you, Killian, I told you not to do anything stupid –”

“It was a one-time thing, it won’t happen –”

“It is treason!” Robin shouts, grabbing his arm and twisting it so Killian has no choice but to face him. “You clearly don’t care, but _I_ do. If anyone discovers what happened, you will lose your head, I will lose mine for knowing about it, and the queen … the queen –”

“No one knows,” Killian says, his stomach flipping at Robin’s words. “Just you, and I sincerely doubt you’re going to go tattling to the king.”

Robin’s face twists, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “You’re an idiot, Killian. Queens have lost their heads for a whisper of adultery before. Any word of this and our queen will be in the same place as them.”

Killian clenches his hands into fists, and he glares furiously at Robin. “Don’t speak like that.”

“Don’t _make_ me. I’ll pretend I know nothing, that to the best of my knowledge, you were on duty all night outside the queen’s room while she slept soundly _and alone_ behind a closed door, and you will never, _ever_ speak of this again. Do you understand me?”

Killian nods mutely, and Robin releases him, shoving him backwards again. Killian doesn’t stick around to be yelled at again, and he jogs back up the stairs.

Emma is awake now too, sitting on the edge of the bed. She changed back into the pink dress, and is braiding her hair into a long plait down her back. She looks over as Killian enters the room, fingers pausing on her hair. He leans against the doorframe, and they stare at each other for a long moment.

Emma breaks it first, and she indicates her head towards the stairwell. “I heard yelling. Who was that?”

Killian runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Robin. He – he came upstairs. He won’t say anything, and I won’t either –”

Emma stands up, coming close and her hand against his chest, fingers playing with the necklace around his neck.

“I know.”

He bends his head to rest their foreheads together. Robin’s words of _treason_ and _adultery_ are echoing through his head, and he realizes how foolish they were, how this could all come crashing down around them.

But who knows – they may die today after all.

They don’t say anything for a long time, until Emma sighs, stepping back from him to slip on her shoes.

“What’s going on down there? The hammering’s stopped.”

“I’m not sure. We can go down and see –”

There’s a _boom_ from down below, the entire building shaking as a cannonball strikes it. Immediately, nuns and Musketeers alike start calling out to each other, their loud yells for help or weapons making it all the way up to the tower.

Killian is stunned. How had the bandits finished their scaffold so quickly? And where did they get a cannon?

Emma jumps into action, darting towards the door, but Killian grabs her arm and tugs her back into the bedroom.

“Wait, wait a second.”

“I am _not_ staying here, Killian –”

“I know.”

He withdraws one of his pistols and a dagger from his belt. One of the sashes Mother Superior uses as a belt is around the room, so he picks it up and reaches around Emma to tie it around her waist. He gives her the dagger and tucks the pistol through the sash at the back of her dress, letting his hands linger on her waist.

“Now we can go.”

They fly down the stone stairs and towards the main entrance. The doors to the convent are wide open, doors broken and ripped from their hinges, the sound of clashing swords and screams flowing in from the courtyard.

A bandit, tall and imposing, steps into the convent, darkening the doorway. He’s brandishing a sharp sword that gleams in the outside light, and he looks directly at Emma and Killian at the other end of the hall.

“I found her!”

His heart beating a mile a minute, Killian grabs Emma and pulls her into the nearest room. Its an old storeroom, littered with old barrels and crates, and he slams the door shut.

“Find somewhere to hide –”

The door bursts open again, and the bandit enters the room, firing off a pistol that narrowly misses Emma. She ducks with a scream, and Killian charges at the bandit, hitting him hard under the chin with his elbow and knocking him backwards.

Killian draws his sword as the bandit rights himself, wiping away the blood from his mouth.

 “You’ll pay for that, Musketeer.”

They circle each other, and Killian makes the first move, the wind whistling as his sword cuts through the air. The bandit counters him expertly, much more expertly than Killian was expecting, and drives him backwards several steps.

He regains his footing, but the bandit takes advantage. He tosses his sword to his left hand and punches Killian in the stomach with his right. He groans as the wind is forced from his lungs, and he bends over, trying to regain his breath. The bandit hits him on the back with the hilt of his sword, sending Killian to his knees with a painful grunt, and then onto his back with another kick to his stomach.

Killian grimaces as the bandit looms over him, and squeezes his eyes shut. He tenses as he waits for the final blow he knows is coming, but it never does. Instead, the bandit lets out a grunt of pain, the shadow he sees through his eyelids disappearing, the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor vibrating through the floor next to him.

There’s silence for a moment, and Killian opens his eyes. Emma is standing above him now, holding up the dagger, the blade glittering with scarlet blood.

“I think I killed him.”  

Killian gapes at the dead bandit beside him, facedown with a bloody rip in the back of his jacket. He clambers back to his feet, wrapping his arms around Emma and pulling her as close as he can.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emma replies, with a touch of amusement. “You’re the one who nearly got stabbed on the floor a minute ago.”

He releases her, shaking his head in awe. “You are bloody brilliant.”

She just shrugs, her jaw tightening and anger flashing in her eyes. “He was going to kill you. I had to stop him.”

He hugs her again, and they leave the bandit on the ground as they depart the storeroom. The fight is in the main courtyard now, and Killian and Emma run right out into the thick of it.

There are only a couple bandits on the grounds; Lancelot and Will are taking on two to three bandits each, the nuns hitting the others that get through them with the garden instruments.

Robin is up on the wall, slashing at bandits as they attempt to climb it from their scaffold. There’s a constant stream of bandits, and he’s struggling to keep up, bandits easily diving around him and down to the ground to meet with Will and Lancelot.

For a moment, both Emma and Killian take in the scene in front of them. Killian doesn’t know where to go – he doesn’t want to leave Emma’s side, but his fellow Musketeers desperately need him.

Tink, in the midst of whacking a bandit across the face with a shovel, notices Emma and Killian standing there in the doorway, and she makes the decision for Killian.

“Protect the queen!”

The ones who are not fighting obey her instantly, circling around Emma and unceremoniously shoving Killian into the thick of the fight. Emma’s eyes flash with annoyance, now surrounded by nuns with garden tools, but she nods encouragingly at Killian as he steps away. He sends her a smile, hoping it’s not the last time he’ll ever be able too, and jumps into action.

Instead of stopping beside Will and Lancelot, Killian runs towards Robin up on the wall, slashing out as bandits as he goes. He cuts himself a path to the meagre ladder someone’s propped up against the wall, clambering up to join Robin.

Right away, there’s a need for him. Robin is preoccupied with two bandits, and a third is rising up from the scaffold, a lethally curved knife in his hands. He hasn’t noticed Killian yet, his eyes focused totally on Robin, and Killian takes advantage.

He draws his pistol, aiming for only a second before pulling the trigger. The force from the bullet sends the bandit flying backwards, his scream of pain echoing back up to Killian as he loses his footing, falling right back the way he came.

The shot startles Robin and the two bandits, all of them looking around for the source.

“Need some help?” Killian asks cheekily, and Robin rolls his eyes. He punches one of the bandits in the face, kicking the other in the gut; both of them fall like the one Killian had shot, screams cut off with a heavy thud at the bottom.

Robin watches them fall with a grim grin, and smirks at Killian. “If you can keep up.”

Killian loses track of how many bandits he fights. No matter how many they manage to shove off the wall, another rises in his place, more furious than before. It’s a constant strain of muscles and swords, firing and reloading pistols, and his mind shuts off, nothing but the scent of battle permeating his thoughts.

He’s fighting a particularly nasty bandit, viciously and furiously, and the man swings out at him with his curved blade. Killian leans back in time to save his face, but he can’t get out of the way entirely, and the blade slices across his chest, just above his heart.

The cut sends hot, burning pain through him, and instantly Killian regrets not pulling on his jacket that morning. The wound spurts blood through his shirt, staining the white linen to scarlet, and he clutches at his chest. Rage courses through him as quick as the pain, and he pulls out his pistol. Before the man can even widen his eyes in fear, Killian dispatches the bandit with a shot to the stomach.

The bandit crumbles, and Killian clutches at his wounded chest. His shirt is becoming soaked with blood, and he presses a hand against the cut, trying to stop the bleeding.

A deep, low rumbling sound reaches him then, and he looks up in alarm. Emerging from the forest now are dozens of horses thundering up the path towards the convent, and at first, he’s afraid it is more bandits.

But as they get closer, to his immense surprise and relief, it’s the exact opposite. He can make out the blue of the Musketeer cloaks, the stampede of approaching soldiers more like an ocean wave riding towards them. David and Captain Humbert are leading the charge of countless soldiers, and Killian can’t help but smile.

He shoves another bandit off the scaffold before he can rise, and leans over the edge into the courtyard, shouting, “Open the gates! The reinforcements are here!”

The nuns scramble to the doors, and by the time they’ve managed to remove some of the barrels barricading the door, it’s not a moment too soon. The doors swing open, and horses thunder into the courtyard, both nuns and bandits scattering as the Musketeers swing off their saddles, charging at the bandits still in the courtyard.

With the large number of Musketeers now there, the bandits don’t stand a chance. The ones who remained on the outside of the convent are swiftly dispatched by the Musketeers who’d dropped from their horses out there, while other Musketeers hack away at the scaffold in an attempt to bring it down, sending the bandits on it screaming and careering onto the ground.

After a time, there’s no one else left to fight on the wall itself, leaving Killian to just watch the bandits fall with a sort of grim satisfaction when his eyes catch movement at the bottom of the hill.

He squints, and can just barely make out a magnificent black horse, a statuesque woman seated atop it.  

“Regina!”

Robin’s voice startles Killian enough he nearly slips right off the wall, and he whirls around to gape at him.

No – _her_?

Though it’s impossible she could have heard him from this distance, the woman reins her horse in, turning in her saddle to stare back up at the convent. Killian can’t see her features from this distance, but Robin pales and shouts out again.

“Regina, stop!”

But the woman kicks at her horse and takes off, disappearing into the thicket of trees. Robin sheathes his sword, looking ready to jump down onto the half-disassembled scaffold and after her, but Killian grabs his arm.

“You won’t catch her. She’s gone.” 

Robin’s eyes are wild, lost into the woods after Regina, and Killian’s not sure Robin even heard him. But then his head snaps over to look at him, and he shoves Killian away, scrambling down the ladder and marching across the courtyard to the convent.

Breathing hard, Killian glances back to the path, but Regina is truly gone now. He feels sick – _she_ is involved in this too? – and he drops down the ladder himself after Robin, his legs nearly giving way after all the fighting.

The fight down here is over now too; the courtyard is littered with bodies and horses and nuns and Musketeers, more like a warzone than a peaceful garden. Killian grimaces as he picks his way through it. He’s intent on finding Emma – who he notices, with a quickening heartbeat, is not where he left her – but he comes across David first, poking one of the bandits’ bodies.

“I’ve never been so glad to see you, mate,” Killian says, pulling David into a hug. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Rode like the wind,” he says, still sounding winded. “Had to. You all needed me.”

He gestures to Killian’s shirt, stained with blood, and the courtyard around them. Killian grimaces; with the wound to his chest still smarting and bleeding, it’s easy to think it could easily be their bodies on the ground instead, nuns and Musketeers instead of bandits, and he shakes his head grimly.

“You’ve no idea.”

He leaves David then, picking his way through the courtyard to where he last saw Emma. A lot of the nuns who’d been around her are gone now too, and he pulls aside the only one he recognizes.

“Where’s the queen?”

She points inside the convent. “Sister Rose took her to the infirmary to clean her up.”

That doesn’t make Killian’s heartbeat slow any, and he hurries inside. In the infirmary, a small room with only two beds, there is a small partition around Aurora’s while Emma is seated on the other. Her dress is pushed off her shoulder and she’s holding a wad of cloth pressed against it, talking softly with Tink in front of her. Tink is washing fresh cloth in a basin, cloth that Killian notes is stained scarlet with blood.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Tink and Emma jump in surprise, Tink dropping the cloth and grabbing a garden hoe beside her. They relax when they recognize him, and Tink shakes her head.

“Don’t sneak up like that, Killian!”

He ignores her. “What happened, Emma?”

“It’s nothing. A bandit shot the convent behind us, and a piece of stone fell and cut my shoulder. I didn’t even get to fight and I got hurt.” She sounds a bit annoyed, but that fades as her eyes widen.

“What happened to you? You’re bleeding.”

He glances down, having forgotten the wound at his chest, and he grimaces. “Oh, that.”

Emma gets to her feet and peels away the linen stuck to the wound, making him hiss in pain. Emma’s eyes darken as she takes in the cut, which, Killian has to admit, is more serious than he thought. It’s more of a gash, really, stretching from his collarbone to his underarm and probably requiring stiches.

“This needs to be cleaned,” Emma says, pulling leading him to the bed she’d just risen from.

“No, your shoulder is worse –”

Emma shoots him a severe look over said injured shoulder, and Killian clamps his mouth shut.

She makes him take his shirt off to get better access to the wound, and that’s when Killian realizes how deep the cut really is. He grimaces as his muscles pull painfully as he pulls the shirt over his head, and Emma has to help him finish it as he can’t lift his left arm.

Tink raises her eyebrows as Emma tosses the shirt to the side, leaning across him to get a fresh cloth and resting her hand casually on his thigh as she does. She deposits an exasperated glance upon Killian, who feels his cheeks flush, and she picks up an extra basin with a sniff.

“I’ll go get some more water.”

The room is quiet without her, Emma dabbing at his chest in silence. Killian tries not to flinch or tense every time the cloth pulls away, both from the wound itself and the dried blood catching on his chest hair and pulling painfully.

“If only we had some rum,” Emma mutters, Killian’s laugh lost in another hiss of pain as she pulls the cloth away.

She leans over him again, wringing out the cloth in the basin, the water in the basin growing red. She orders him to take the swan necklace off as it too is covered in blood, and he obeys, placing it in her outstretched hand. Her fingers close over it, and Killian’s hand closes over hers too before she can pull away.

“It kept me safe, as you wished.”

 She smiles. “Good.” 

The thought of the swan pendant brings to mind the man who it didn’t keep safe, Monsieur Gillert. When she’s finished bandaging his chest, wrapping the cloth tightly around his upper torso to keep it in place, he grabs her hand again, pausing her.

“Emma, I need to tell you something. Before we left Paris, remember when we spoke about our suspect for Gillert’s murder?”

Her eyes darken. “Robin’s wife.”

“Yes. When I was up there on the wall with Robin, we spotted her at the bottom of the hill.”

Emma’s mouth drops open, and she gets to her feet in a rush, whirling around to stare out the single window. “You – she was _here_?”

“She disappeared into the forest. There was no way we could have caught her.”

She shakes her head, and clenches her hands into fists. “It’s all connected. Monsieur Gillert’s death, these bandits. I bet the guards at the Bastille too. They’re after me. _She’s_ after me.”

Her voice breaks, whether from anger or fear, Killian’s not sure. He gets to his feet, wincing at the pull on his muscles, stepping forward and wrapping his good arm around Emma.

“We’ll keep you safe, Emma. I promise.”

She presses her face against the uninjured side of his face, and shakes her head. “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s everyone around me.”

He tightens his grip on her, pulling her closer and tucking her against his chest. “We’ll protect them too.”

They stay in each other’s embrace, even though it’s an awkward hug, neither of them capable of moving an arm due to their injuries. A few minutes later, someone clears their throat loudly from the doorway and they quickly pull apart, Emma turning away and wiping at her eyes.

Thankfully it’s Tink, pointedly up to the ceiling, sloshing basin of water in her arms.

“Can I come back in now please?”

Her exasperated tone breaks the dark mood, and both Emma and Killian laugh. Emma shifts further away from Killian as Tink sets the water basin down beside the bed, setting her hands on her hips and staring at Emma.

“Can I please fix your shoulder up now, Your Majesty? Mother Superior will wring my neck if she sees you like this.”

Emma nods, and with a fresh cloth in hand, Tink hip-checks Killian further away from the queen as she sits down between them. Killian rolls his eyes at her, pulling his shirt back on (with some difficulty) and ducks away to check on the others.

The immediate plan is to leave that afternoon, but the Musketeers and Emma don’t end up going. The convent is more seriously damaged than they realized and they’d be leaving an enormous task to the nuns. The Musketeers do what repairs they can and others sleep, trying to catch up on a night’s rest lost to riding hard.

Though Killian had gone to check on the others, Mother Superior spotted him leaving the infirmary, his chest already bleeding through the bandages, and she sent him right back where another nun sews the wound up.

When she’s finished, Killian never wishing for rum more than after that experience, and when Tink is finished bandaging Emma’s shoulder, they leave the infirmary together. They have both ended up with an injured arm pinned to their chests and they end up working together, each with one arm, to help out the others.

Though they’re doing nothing but helping out by dragging some wreckage away, when Robin sees them he turns a nasty shade of purple and orders Killian away to help with the repairs elsewhere.

Killian doesn’t see Emma at all after that. Everywhere he turns, Robin is there, watching him like a hawk and keeping him occupied with many mundane tasks. And though Killian is sure he’s doing it to make sure he stays away from Emma, Killian suspects having him to boss around is taking Robin’s mind off seeing Regina at the bottom of the hill too.

He hasn’t said a word about it since, and Killian doesn’t dare bring it up, not with the full squadron of Musketeers about who don’t know the entire story.

Robin’s hovering relents as night falls. With the repairs taking longer than expected, they’ve decided to spend one more night here, leaving in the morning, and Killian trudges off to bed while Robin retreats to guard Emma’s bedroom himself, clearly not trusting anyone else.

The next morning, some of the Musketeers elect to stay behind to finish up repairs, while Killian and his cohort get ready to leave to take Emma back to Paris. The nuns gather in the courtyard to say goodbye, and Killian pulls Tink into a hug.

“Keep out of trouble. Tink.”

She rolls her eyes. “Trouble follows _you,_ not me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he replies with a cheeky grin. “We were ambushed outside _your_ convent, so I’d say this trouble was following you.”

But she doesn’t laugh. Her eyes flicker over Killian’s shoulder, to where he knows Emma is saying goodbye to some of the other nuns, and she says, quietly, “You’ll be careful, right?”

He nods, though he can’t help the swoosh of trepidation in his stomach; they’ve survived this attack, and the potential consequences of the other night weigh are beginning to weight heavily on his shoulders.

He forces those thoughts away when they leave the convent behind, leaving what happened with Emma behind him there too. Though Emma was talking about their kiss when she said it, Killian knows _a one time thing_ is truly what their night at the convent will have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/166818447258/if-the-stars-align-chapter-10-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter XI

In the weeks after Emma returns to Paris, life returns to a normal, if somewhat uneasy, lull. Emma feels like she’s always looking over her shoulder, expecting a man to charge at her with a sword or see this elusive Regina, but there are no more threats or attacks, daily monotony returning instead.

The plans to go to the wedding were sufficiently derailed by the attack, and Henry returned to Paris after the attack and has been stuck to Emma’s hip like a moth to light ever since. The news of the attack frightened him terribly, and he’s decided the only way Emma will be safe is to not let her out of his sight.

He’s currently sat on her bed, swinging his legs back and forth, reading a fairy tale book Mary Margaret gave him months ago. Emma watches him fondly in the mirror as Mary Margaret braids her hair into a crown, angled just so she can still see her son. His nose is so close to the page she’s sure he’ll get an ink stain, and she chuckles.

“What’s the story today, Henry?”

“Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” he replies without looking up.

“That’s a good one,” Emma comments, wincing as Mary Margaret pulls her hair particularly tight and glances at the clock across the room. “But don’t forget you’ve got your lessons in an hour. You know how cross your tutors get when you’re late.”

Henry looks up at that, his eyes turning wide and pleading. “Can’t I skip my lessons today, Mother?”

She frowns. “Why?”

“For Father’s garden party this afternoon. The Musketeers are coming, right?”

Emma’s heart does that silly skip that’s started to happen whenever the Musketeers are mentioned, and she has to force her voice calm as she asks, “What does that have to with skipping lessons? You see the Musketeers all the time.”

Though that’s not quite true. Since her return from the convent, Neal’s been peculiar about having them around. He yelled himself hoarse at the Musketeers when they returned, somehow blaming _them_ for the ambush, and sent them away from the Louvre without a word of praise or thanks for saving Emma’s life.

After that, Emma had yelled at Neal until _her_ throat was hoarse – it had only been _because_ of the Musketeers that she was still alive, but he refused to budge from his position. They’d argued for hours, resulting in Neal storming away and Emma refusing to speak to him for days, and since then, the Musketeers have become a sore point of contention between them. Neal thinks trouble follows them everywhere they go, from the Bastille to the road to Nantes, and has preferred to use the Cardinal’s Red Guards as protection instead, whereas Emma would rather die than use those spies as her guards.

But, she’s had no choice these past few weeks. The Musketeers have been sent on various errands throughout Paris, essentially banished from the Louvre, and Emma hasn’t seen them in days, not since a brief look at Captain Humbert and Lancelot when they visited the palace the other day.

But today, Henry’s right. Neal is hosting a garden party for some of the army generals, visiting Paris to offer updates from the war front, and the Musketeers will be the guards on duty today, not the Red Guards. Several of the Musketeers served in the French army before joining the Musketeers and Emma knows the generals prefer the blue cloaked guardians over the red.

Their presence today is one of the reasons she’s even agreed to attend the party. She hasn’t had a chance to talk to Killian since the return to the palace, and it surprises her how much she misses him. With spending time in the Louvre, where mostly everyone shoots her suspicious looks or outright ignores her most of the time, it’s easy to miss Killian’s warmth and kindness, the way he listens and believes in her when hardly anyone else does, and his actual desire to be around her.

Henry lets out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the bed, and Emma’s attention snaps back to him.

“But I haven’t seen the Musketeers in _weeks_. And Father said I could start to _actually_ learn some sword fighting, and they’re the best. All the teachers Father will hire will let me win, but the Musketeers won’t. And besides ...” he trails off, pausing for a moment of quiet contemplation, his whining mood draining into something more serious as he stares up at the ceiling. “They treat me as if I’m normal. I like that.”

Emma’s heart clenches; Henry spends most of his time with his mother and tutors and a storybook. He doesn’t have any friends his own age; the only children he interacts with are the children of nobles whose parents want them to get in good with the future king. He’s quiet and sweet, her boy, and she hates people see only his title instead of who he is as a person.

She knows exactly how the Musketeers are capable of making people feel the complete opposite.

“You can skip your lessons today, Henry.”

<> 

When Killian first started as a Musketeer several years ago now, he wondered how any work got done in this country, with the constant balls and garden parties and hunts. He soon realized that _is_ where the work is done, in the shaded awnings and glittering ballrooms and conversations had over wine and cheese. Policies are decided over lunch, laws written and signed in the time it takes for the band to flip their sheet music, taxes and tariffs determined during teatime.  

Today is his first day back at the Louvre in weeks. He’s been desperate to see Emma again – selfishly, of course, but also because they need to talk. Their one night is burned into his mind, a stolen moment in the face of certain death, and he doesn’t know where they stand now that they’ve evaded Death for the time being.

In the garden, his eyes immediately fall on Emma when she arrives with Mary Margaret and Henry. He makes a move towards them, but Robin cuts in, sending him off to the other end of the garden with crossed arms and pointed eyes. That of course, frustrates him, but it’s not as if he can say anything about with the entire court here.

He trudges over to the ministers, and realizes that was a bigger mistake, as the topic of discussion is the war with England. France is losing terribly, losing men and territory with every new update from the front, and to the French, it’s as if every Englishman on the face of the planet is to blame. Killian has heard all the talk before, but it’s hard to not to shift uncomfortably each time a minister declares his hatred of the English.

One of the generals gesticulates about what he’d like to do with the English sailors they’ve captured so far, drawing his finger across his neck, and Killian looks away, swallowing deeply. He has no loyalty to the English anymore, but the French wouldn’t care about that if they knew about his past. All they’d see is a former English lieutenant and treat him exactly like those captured sailors, throats slit and dumped in a shallow grave.

Then, distracting him from his dark thoughts, Henry comes bouncing up to him. He has a pair of wooden swords clasped in his hands, a wide grin on his face.

“Sir Jones, will you fence with me?”

Killian looks across to where the king is seated with his court, deep in discussion, oblivious to anything but themselves. Henry’s not been allowed to practice or play around with the Musketeers before – not, at least, in view of the king – and the young boy sees his hesitation.

“My father says it’s alright, I asked him yesterday. Please?”

Killian remains quiet, tying to decide what is proper here – listening to the ten-year old’s tale or the orders from the king. But then the ministers burst into laughter, levelling insults back and forth about what they’re going to do to one particularly defiant English sailor, and Killian turns back to Henry, hand out for the swords.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

They move to a wider area of the lawn, far enough away from the rest of the court to give them lots of room to practice. Killian bends down to Henry’s height and holds out one of the swords to him, expression serious.

“It’s a great honour to carry a sword, even a wooden one. You hold the power of life and death in your hands with a weapon such as this. You always have to be thinking of that.”

Henry nods seriously and accepts the sword. Killian rises, surveying Henry’s stance and grip on the sword, and he knows they’ve got some work to do.

“You’ve got a good grip there but hold it like this,” he says, twisting Henry’s fingers around the hilt to the perfect position. “Right hand under the guard, left above the pommel. There, you’ve got it.”

Killian steps back to pick up his own wooden sword, and Henry pipes up with a question: “When did you know you wanted to be a Musketeer, Sir Jones?”

Across the lawn, some of the ministers laugh again, the sound making the hair on the back of Killian’s neck rise, and he tries not to grimace. He’d never tell his real reasons to a ten-year-old child, especially not one who will be the king of France one day.

“I was searching for a new adventure,” he replies simply. He glances down at Henry’s grip, which has loosened in the time it took Killian to get his sword and Henry to ask his question, and he shakes his head with a chuckle. “Now, look there, your left hand needs to be tight there on the hilt, right? One strong hit from an enemy and the sword can go flying from your hands if you’re not holding tight enough.”

Killian directs Henry into the proper stance, his left foot behind his right, standing lightly on the balls of his feet and ready to strike. But before he can tell Henry to take a swing at him, Henry interrupts again.

 “What did you do before you were a Musketeer?”

“I – uh...” He hesitates, but then decides to go with the truth, or at least as much of as he can get away with. “I was a sailor.”

Henry’s eyes widen, and he releases the sword, letting it drop and hang at his side. “A sailor? Like a pirate?”

The word _pirate_ stings, but Killian laughs, hoping Henry doesn’t hear the bitter edge to it. “No. Just a normal sailor.”

Henry is still impressed. “Will you be coming with us to Bordeaux this winter? Because there’s lots of water there, and maybe you could teach me how to sail!”

Killian is taken aback. It’s been years since he’s been on a ship, not since his last voyage to France, and he hasn’t pictured himself on a ship ever again. He still dreams of the rocking waves, the sharp smell of salt, the hot sea sun burning down on him for hours on end, and though the sea will always be in his blood, life in Paris keeps him busy. There’s never been a chance to get to the water again, but when he thinks of going out onto the waves, teaching Henry what he himself was taught at his age, he realizes just how much he’s missed it.

“Of course I’ll teach you. But first we need to work on your swordsmanship, aye? Every good sailor needs to know how to fight.”

Henry grins, slipping back into the fighting stance, and their lesson continues.

<> 

Across the lush green lawn from where Henry and Killian are fencing is the rest of the royal court. Most of the court is around Neal and his ministers, talking furiously about the latest developments in the war, while Emma and Mary Margaret are lounging on some wicker chairs across the small pavilion, not involved in the conversation at all.

Which is fine with Emma. The news of the war is not good (it’s never good) and each idea suggested by the ministers is more idiotic than the next. When the war had first been declared, she’d offered her help, as after all, _she’s_ the one who grew up in a civil war, but her input had been swiftly dismissed.

_No offense, Your Majesty, but what could you know about war?_

_Leave this to the experts._

_Don’t you have some ball to throw or party to plan?_

Though those comments make Emma’s blood boil and make her want to declare herself a soldier for the English so she can knock some sense into the French, she’s taken a step back from offering her help. Let them do what they think is best, bury themselves in their own graves, and maybe then they’ll come crawling to her.

One day, like Killian said, she’ll get to build her France.

Instead of fuming, Emma’s decided to watch Killian and Henry across the lawn. She noticed him right away when she stepped out into the garden, but Robin (of course) sent him off in the other direction, so she’s settled on watching them from afar.

Killian is standing beside Henry, demonstrating a stance Emma recognizes as one he taught her too. She wishes she could get up and join them instead of sitting here. If the Musketeers weren’t already such a sore point with Neal, Emma probably would get up and join her son and Killian, even with all the ministers and servants about. But she’s cautious of causing any trouble for the Musketeers, lest Neal find a reason to banish them from the grounds again, and she doesn’t want to take that away from Henry.

(Or herself.)

Or, apparently, Mary Margaret.

“I’m glad to see the Musketeers back here,” she says, shading her eyes from the bright sun, watching David across the pavilion where he’s guarding the king.

Emma smirks, unable to stop herself. “I bet Sir Nolan is pleased about that too.” Mary Margaret whips around, flushing bright red, and Emma laughs at the look on her face. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

Mary Margaret leans back into her chair, only looking slightly reassured. Her cheeks are pink, and she fiddles absently with an edge of her skirt, eyes darting over to David. “Yes, well. David and I ... that’s complicated.”

There’s a twinge in Emma’s chest, that hitting a little too close to home for her, and she feels bad for teasing Mary Margaret. She opens her mouth to apologize, but before she can say anything, Killian and Henry come towards her, Henry leading the way with a wide grin.

He’s waving his sword in the air wildly and he shouts, “Mother, Mother! Sir Jones taught me this move, want to see?”

He demonstrates it without waiting for an answer, jumping into stance and taking a swing at Killian, who isn’t expecting it. Killian blocks the hit, but has to concede a step, and Henry lets out a cheer.

“I think you need a new challenger,” Killian says with a laugh, and he nudges Henry forward. “Sir Nolan could use a good whack on the back of the knees.”

Henry giggles, and sneaks up towards David where he’s standing behind the king, appearing bored out of his mind. He doesn’t notice Henry’s light steps until it’s too late. Henry hits him hard with the wooden sword on his legs, and David lets out a yelp of pain.

All the courtiers who witness it burst out laughing, as do Emma and Killian. David whirls around, surprise and fury across his face. That quickly dissipates when he sees Henry nearly, doubled over with laughter, leaning on his wooden sword for support, and he rests his arms on his hips, giving Henry a mock stern look.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to hit a man when he’s not expecting it?”

“Sir Jones told me to do the opposite.”

David shoots Killian a dark look, and he smiles widely back at him.

“Well,” David says, with a tight grin, eyes glaring daggers at Killian, “he is gonna pay for that later. Now, come on, let’s see what he’s taught you.”

David and Henry move back to where he and Killian had practiced earlier, David taking the wooden sword from Killian with a shove to his shoulder as they pass. Killian looks to Emma quickly, but makes a move to take over David’s spot.

Emma scrambles to her feet before he gets to far, calling out, “Will you accompany me on a walk, Sir Jones?”

He nods, and Emma’s careful to keep a distance between them as they head off. Emma can almost feel Robin’s eyes on them, burning in annoyance, but as much as she knows she can’t do anything (like link her arms with Killian’s as she so wants to) with everyone around, Robin can’t either.

“How are you healing?” she asks as they walk towards the edge of the gardens, to where a little maze has been erected from the hedge.

“Good.” He moves his arm in a circular motion, with not a grimace. “All healed up. How about you?”

Emma mimics his motion. “All better.”

She glances behind them then. Without the Musketeers around, she hasn’t been able to ask anyone for updates on the search for Regina.

“Any news on Regina?”

Killian shakes his head, jaw tightening. “No. We’ve been following any lead, but there’s nothing. She’s like a ghost.”

Emma nods, though her stomach tightens with dread. The convent attack reappears in her dreams every night, the images twisted and violent, and everyday Regina is free is a day where there could be another attack.

She smiles tightly at Killian, shoving the thoughts away. “Well, I know you’ll find her soon.”

In the little maze, Emma runs her fingers over the top of the hedge as they fall into silence. Even though they’re alone now, there’s a lingering tension between them that she doesn’t like. Killian keeps his distance respectful, as always, but he’s tenser than before, a step further away, and it makes Emma’s heart sink.

The first time she’s seen him in weeks, and this is how he acts.

She understands, of course, that he’s trying to keep distance between them, that he’s all too aware of the consequences of what could happen if anyone were to discover what happened at the convent. But this could be the last time she sees him for a while if Neal throws another fit, and she doesn’t want this awkwardness and tension to fester anymore than it has.

“Please don’t pull away from me, Killian,” Emma whispers, resting her hand on his arm and he stiffens. “Not – not because we survived the convent and now we’re back in the real world.”

He regards her seriously, eyes guarded, but he doesn’t remove her hand. “It will hurt you if anyone finds out.”

Emma doesn’t need anyone to tell her that; “I know what will happen,” she snaps and Killian flinches. That’s the opposite of what she wanted, and she takes a deep breath. She’s never been very good at expressing her emotions, and with Killian’s serious expression and tense stance, her tongue feels like it’s been tied in knots.

“I didn’t – that’s not – Killian, listen.” She shakes her head, trying to gather her thoughts. “I’ve lost a lot of people in my life,” she says finally, thinking of the parents she never knew, the only family she ever had left behind in Denmark, the lost love with Neal. “And I can’t lose you too.”

His expression changes instantly, eyes softening, and he lays his hand over hers on his arm. “You won’t lose me, Emma. Ever.”

She smiles, a heavy weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying on her shoulders evaporating. “Good.”

A loud chorus of laughter reaches them, carrying over from the other side of the lawn, shattering the moment. They both take a step backwards, Emma shoving her hands into the pockets of her dress, and she clears her throat.

“Perhaps we can go see the swans before you leave.”

Killian smiles. “I would like that.”

<> 

Emma’s true to her promise, and before the Musketeers leave that afternoon, she asks Killian to come to the swans with her. Henry comes along, so it’s not a private walk like it was around the maze, but Killian enjoys spending time with the young boy too.

The swans are sleepy, lounging around and not doing anything. They stay there for several minutes, watching the swans in silence. It’s peaceful, a drastic change from the angry ministers and generals, and Killian would be content to watch them all the rest of the day. But Henry’s attention soon wavers, and he wants to return to fence some more.

He skips ahead of them as they walk back, calling out to Robin to get the wooden swords, and Killian walks back at Emma’s side.

Their arms brush, something so simple and casual, but still too close for a Musketeer to stand. Emma creates more distance between them as they come closer to the rest of the court, sending him a sad smile, and he feels a rush of resentment at the situation. He doesn’t want to _have_ to stay away from Emma, in case anyone see him stand too close or smile widely and draw the wrong ( _right_ ) conclusion. That was his reasoning before her confession about not wanting to lose him, but she’s right – pulling back will hurt the both of them. But staying close to her is dangerous for them both and one way or another, this may end up killing him.

They return to the rest of the group, where the generals are still talking about the English sailors. Killian stiffens as they pass them, and Emma notices.

“Don’t listen to them,” she whispers, brushing her hand over his arm, glaring at the generals. “They’re brutes.”

Emma smiles at him before she returns to her seat, drawn into a conversation by Mary Margaret right away. Killian turns around, and nearly runs right into Cardinal Gold. He starts to apologize, but his blood chills at the look on Gold’s face. He’s watching Emma with narrowed eyes, and his eyes flick over to Killian, brow furrowed as if he’s trying to figure out a difficult puzzle.

A bad feeling settles in Killian’s stomach, and he tries to keeps his face neutral as he bows to step out of Gold’s way. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

The cardinal smiles, a cold leer that makes goosebumps appear on Killian’s skin, that bad feeling spreading to cover him head to toe. The cardinal’s eyes flick to Killian’s chest, where the swan necklace has slipped out from his vest during the play fight with Henry. It’s gleaming in the sunlight, swan crest evident, and Killian curses internally, clenching his hand into a fist to resist the urge to tuck the necklace away.

Gold’s eyes return to Killian’s face, that leer widening. “It’s not a problem at all, Musketeer. I was just observing.”

He walks away, and somehow the warm day seems infinitely colder.

<> 

Down in the _La_ _Marais_ district of Paris, near the homes of the wealthiest and most affluent Parisians on the _Rive Droite_ , the heat of the day has faded into a cool, breezy summer eve. Occupants of the rich homes are out strolling by the Seine, couples linked arm in arm, young children running ahead of parents with giggles and laughs of delight.

A woman no one knows by sight is amongst them, but the Parisians pay her no extra notice. After all, in her elegant amber dress, black hair hidden under a heavily embroidered hood with jewelled necklaces clanging over her chest with every step, Regina fits right in with the neighborhood.

She strolls along on the cobblestoned street, smiling pleasantly in greeting to passersby, even pausing herself every so often to admire the newly constructed townhouses on the _Île Saint-Louis_ across the river. In Paris’ newest neighborhood, the district set to outmatch even _La Marais_ in elegance and class, the serious stone façades and darkened tile roofs call to her, beckon her to venture just across the bridge to explore them further.

After all, if everything goes to plan next week, she’ll hardly have to wait at all until she can call one of those home. Her own personal kingdom.

She leaves the rich Parisians to their river strolls, ducking into the cramped streets and tight buildings. A block away, she emerges onto a wide street and makes for the large _Hôtel de Sens_ on one of the corners. It is coloured the same as the new townhouses across the river, white stone with a darkened roof, but designed more like a medieval castle, with towers and spires and an arched iron gate.

The guards, in their scarlet uniforms, nod at her as she approaches, swinging open the gate without a word, and she strides right up to the front door. A young woman, pretty with blue eyes and auburn hair, opens the old, creaking door after Regina knocks. She begins a welcome, but Regina steps forward, shoving by her and right into the foyer of the grand building.

The maid, spluttering, trails after her. “Excuse me, madame, what are you –”

“Fetch your master,” Regina orders, removing her soft calfskin gloves, tucking them into a pocket of her dress. The maid doesn’t move, staring at Regina as if expecting an explanation, and Regina lets out a huff of irritation.

“Are your ears full of wax, girl? Go on, get him. He is expecting me.”

She crosses her arms, unmoving. “Your name, madame?”

“No names, dear. He’ll know me. Scurry on.” 

Though the maid doesn’t look convinced, she turns and disappears down one of the numerous hallways. Regina has to wait more than a few minutes before the maid remerges, beckoning Regina to follow her.

“He will see you in his study, milady.”

Regina follows the maid down a richly decorated hallway, lined with biblical paintings and tapestries. Though it looks like a house fitting for a man devoted to his God, the man waiting for Regina at the end of the hall is more demon than saint.

The office is dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the twilight sky, but the man seated behind the ornate desk is recognizable in any light.

Cardinal Gold.

He’s still ensconced in his heavy crimson clerical robes from a day at court and doesn’t rise from his desk, nor even lift his head from whatever papers he’s reading.

“Thank you, Belle,” he says, waving away the maid absently. “Close the door behind you.”

Regina drops into a chair in front of the desk as Belle closes the door. Her large skirts blow out around her, sending a puff of air that ruffles Gold’s papers and earns her a sigh of annoyance.

“You’re late,” he says as a greeting.

She shrugs. “You gave me short notice.”

He sighs again, and finally looks up from the papers. “I came across something interesting at the palace today, and I want you to keep an eye on it for me.”

“What is it?”

“The Musketeers.”

Regina straightens, keeping her face neutral. As far as she knows, Gold doesn’t know anything about her past with the Musketeers, and she’d like to keep it that way. She keeps her voice cool and asks, feigning disinterest, “On them? Why?”

“Because of the queen. When she returned from the convent and the king sent the Musketeers away, I’ve never seen her get that angry. She throws fits about everything from being left out of council meetings to her son’s lessons but this fight ... there was something more going on than just not having her precious Musketeers around. Today, at the party for the generals, I got my answer as to why.” He pauses, a cold, thoughtful expression crossing his face. “There’s one in particular I want you to watch.”

“Which one?” she asks suspiciously.

“Killian Jones.”

That name means little to Regina. Other than Robin, she’s ignored the rest of the Musketeers, and Gold describes him at her blank look – dark hair, blue eyes, slight accent. There’s only one she can think he means: the one who rode next to Robin at the coronation parade, the one who grabbed Robin on the wall at the convent to stop him coming after her.

“Okay,” she says, slowly, “I can watch him. But why? If everything goes as planned next week –”

Gold laughs coldly, and Regina falls silent, goosebumps rising on the back of her neck at the sound. She may be a heartless monster herself, but even she’s affected by the true inhumanity of Cardinal Gold.

“With you, dear Regina, that’s no guarantee. You’ve failed me twice now. The Bastille, on the way to Nantes. I am merely exploring our options if you fail me again.”

Regina bristles, and she glares at him. “That is not my fault. The Musketeers are –”

“Yes, yes, the Musketeers. That’s my point, dearie. They’ll defend the queen to the death, so should you fail again, I need a contingency plan.” He smiles, cold and dark, a shadowy demon hidden in his eyes, and he continues, “And you watching Killian Jones and Queen Emma is that plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/167054263353/if-the-stars-align-chapter-11-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: this is where the story starts to earn that M rating; the story's about to get a bit darker now.

Down at _La Lune_ , as the sun sinks behind the horizon, Killian sits at the bar by himself, staring at the bottom of an empty glass. The rest of the bar is loud and raucous, men laughing and playing dice, but Killian doesn’t even hear them.

_I was just observing._

The room is swaying around him, any movement making him feel like he could topple over off the stool. He hasn’t drank this much in years, not since Liam’s death when he’d drink himself to unconsciousness nearly ever night. Since joining the Musketeers, he’s managed to restrict his consumption as there’s a stricter code around alcohol within the regiment and he’s been much better for years. A drink here and there, a visit to the local pub for a single drink instead of the whole night, a swig from his flask now and then.

Tonight, all his progress seems to have gone right out the window.

_I was just observing._

Those simple words from Cardinal Gold have sent fear shooting straight to his heart, and he’s been unable to focus on anything else since that afternoon. He could be overreacting, it could just be a simple comment that means nothing, but his gut is twisted into knots over it.

If the cardinal suspects anything ...

Ruby, the owner’s granddaughter, stops behind the bar opposite him, startling him out of his thoughts with a wry grin and snort.

“Think you’ve had enough there, Killian?”

He gives her an unimpressed glare as she gestures to the multiple empty glasses around him, and points to the bottle of rum behind her. “Hardly. Don’t be cheap, Ruby.”

She rolls her eyes, but pours him another drink nonetheless. As he takes a swig, the rum burning his throat and warming his belly, she crosses her arms and surveys him with dark eyes.

“Alright. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s goin’ on. Can’t a man drink in peace?”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging, “but I’ve never seen you drink like this before.”

He chuckles darkly, and swigs back a good portion of his drink. “You don’t know me very well.”

Ruby narrows her eyes, leaning across the counter and starting intently at him. “Did you get bad news? Did you get fired?”

He doesn’t answer yay or nay to any of her questions, glaring at her silently instead. That doesn’t deter Ruby in the slightest.

“Did someone die? Is it about a woman?” That question makes him tense, and Ruby’s eyes flash in triumph. “So it is a woman.”

He finishes his drink, glaring at her as he puts the glass down hard on the bar. “I don’t want to talk about it, Ruby.”

“Well I do,” she replies, with a mischievous grin. “You’re the one drinking my entire supply of rum, so start talking or you’re cut off.” She laughs at the expression on his face at that, and shrugs. “Okay, fine, I’ll ask the questions. Who is she? Do I know her? What’s the problem with her?”

Her voice is growing louder, drawing the attention of several other patrons, and Killian interrupts her with a hissed, “Keep your voice down.”

She crosses her arms again, unimpressed, and Killian sighs, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“It’s not that simply, Ruby.”

She raises an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue, but Killian doesn’t know what to say. How can he explain this to her, when he himself is not even sober enough to sort through his emotions in a productive way?

_Oh, Ruby, it’s really not that big of a deal. She’s just the Queen of France, and I think the Cardinal has suspicions about us, and if he finds out what happened between us, we’ll both be killed._

Instead, he shakes his head, taking another drink of rum and going with the easiest answer he can muster: “She’s married.”

Ruby just snorts. “That’s it? Everyone’s married, Killian. It hasn’t stopped David and Mary Margaret.”  

Killian chokes on the rum. He coughs violently, and splutters, “How – how do you know about that?”

“I know everything,” she says with a cheeky grin. “Also, Will was in here the other day and like you, when he drinks, he talks.”

(Killian is suddenly grateful that of all the Musketeers who had to walk up the stairs to Emma’s rooms that morning at the convent, it wasn’t Will.)

“Well, this is different than David and Mary Margaret,” Killian says. “She’s not just any married woman.”

Ruby raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, and Killian mutters a curse. Fine, if she wants to know ... at least the burden of this secret won’t be entirely on his shoulders anymore.

But saying the words out loud, that’s dangerous. _La Lune_ is crowded, listening ears everywhere, so instead, he tugs out the chain from around his neck and hands it to her.

She just stares at it, turning it over in her fingers, frowning in confusion. Her eyes widen as she sees the engraved swan, and her head snaps up to look at him.

“Oh, Killian.”

He shakes his head wearily. “I told you it was different.”

Ruby pulls down the bottle of rum and pours him a generous portion, and he’d want to laugh at that reaction, if the situation wasn’t making him so anxious that he downs the drink in one go, letting it burn its way down his throat.

“Does anyone know?” she demands.

“Robin,” he admits, reluctantly. “And now you. And ... possibly Cardinal Gold.”

Ruby mutters a curse, and this time, when she turns around to get the rum bottle again, she grabs another glass, pouring both herself and Killian full glasses. She swallows all of hers in a single motion, gritting her teeth at the burn, and shakes her head at him.

“What are you going to do?”

Killian picks up his glass, staring at the amber liquid as it sloshes around as if it holds the answers he so desperately needs.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

<> 

A few days later, it’s the king and queen’s twelfth wedding anniversary, and a celebratory mass is planned at the small church they were married at called Saint-Eustache.

Like the coronation parade, security on the way to the church is tight, and since the events at the Bastille and the convent, security has been upped even more. After his furious tirade at them after the convent, Killian was surprised the king let the Musketeers come along. They haven’t been back to the palace since the party for the generals, banished again to the Parisian streets, but there aren’t enough Red Guards to cover the entire church so here they are.

Killian is hyperaware of Cardinal Gold’s presence as they arrive at the church, the swan pendant a heavy weight against his chest. He knows he may be acting paranoid, but he’s careful to keep his distance from Emma anyways, volunteering to watch Henry instead. The king walks ahead with Will and Lancelot flanking him, Emma following after with David and Captain Humbert, and he and Robin come up with Henry.

The church is stuffed full of people, all eager to see the royal family. The Musketeers have to push their way through when they first arrive until the people realize the royal family is here, parting like the Red Sea then to let them all through.

Cardinal Gold is to lead the mass, and he’s already at the altar, kneeling and praying. Killian tenses at the sight of him, but he doesn’t even look at him as he rises, bowing to Neal and Emma.

Henry scampers off to his throne, Killian following him quickly, while his parents drop to their knees at the altar to receive the cardinal’s blessing.

It’s only been a few moments, Gold’s voice ringing out with the blessing and the church falling quiet to hear it, when the calm day is interrupted. Emma has just shifted her weight to the left, tugging at her heavy dress that’s become caught under her knees, when there’s a sudden _crunch_ of splintering wood, something striking the kneeler right in front of her.

Emma flinches away, losing her balance and falling backwards onto her elbows on the hard marble floor. As she does, Killian sees that what struck the kneeler is a bolt from a crossbow, having embedded itself several inches deep, exactly where Emma just was.

For a moment, no one in the church moves, either gaping at Emma or twisting around to see where the bolt came from, and then all hell breaks loose.

People start shouting and screaming, and Killian darts up to Henry. Though Emma is still on the ground and he wants nothing more than to run over to her, his duty is to Henry and he can’t abandon the boy. He grabs Henry by the waist, pulling him upright and dragging him away to the side of the church, hiding him behind one of the pillars.

The other Musketeers have acted too now, Lancelot shoving the king off to the other side of the church, and David and Will are pulling Emma to her feet and directing her to cover behind another pillar.

Robin and Captain Humbert run to the back of the church where there are stairs leading up to the upper level, shoving their way through the panicking crowd. Captain Humbert is yelling for everyone to stay put, but no one is listening, all pushing and shoving each other to get out of the church as quickly as possible.

“What’s going on?” Henry demands, trying to peer out from behind the pillar. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Killian says, pushing Henry back behind the pillar, lest another shot come raining down.

He himself leans out though, trying to see what is going on, and his heart drops into his stomach as he looks up to the upper level of the church. There, running at full speed on the balcony away from the front of the church, crossbow slung over her shoulder, blue skirts flaring out like a roaring river behind her, is the woman from the convent.

Regina.

Emma appears in front of them, making Killian jump and look away from the balcony. She’s somehow broken free of David and Will’s protection, and she grabs Henry from Killian, crushing him into a hug.

“Henry, are you okay?”

He nods, and presses his face into her stomach, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “I’m scared.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Emma whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. She looks to Killian over his head and mouths, ‘What was that?’

‘Regina,’ he mouths back, and Emma’s jaw tightens, a flash of anger across her face.

“Where?” she demands, out loud this time.

“On the balcony. I have to go help the others. Stay here, okay?”

Emma grabs his arm, stopping him and there’s the same emotion he saw in her eyes at the convent, intermingled with the fear, a feeling he knows the name of, but doesn’t dare name.

“Be careful.”

He wishes he could kiss her goodbye, and if Henry wasn’t right there, he probably would. He settles for a smile instead, briefly touching the sword charm at his neck, and caressing her cheek with his other hand.

“Survivor, remember?”

Will and David join them, annoyed that Emma left them, and Will stays with Emma and Henry to keep them safe. David and Killian wind their way through the crowd towards the back of the church, pushing the terrified people out of their way as they go,

In the narthex, on the stairs leading up to the upper level, Robin and Captain Humbert have slowed to a walk now, stepping quietly upwards with their pistols drawn. Killian and David join them, and the four of them spread out across the top of the loft when they reach the top of the stairs, walking in a line towards the other end where Regina had shot from.

She’s nowhere in sight, but like downstairs, there are pillars everywhere and Killian knows she must be hiding somewhere. The hum from the fleeing crowd below dims, his focus lasering in on the pillars before him, straining for any sight of her.

There’s a flash of blue from behind one of the pillars to his left, a darting figure running from one to another, and David follows it with his pistol.

“Hey – stop!”

He fires a shot, barely missing Regina as she ducks behind another pillar. The marble on the pillar explodes as the bullet hits, sending sharp pieces of rock and dust flying through the air, and Killian grabs David’s arm before he can reload.

“Don’t shoot her. We need her alive.”

The screaming down below has intensified with David’s shot, and as the marble dust settles, smoke clearing, the Musketeers approach the pillar carefully. Killian sees another burst of blue and he darts after it.

Regina’s chosen a bad route, heading for a window that, unfortunately for her, is painted shut. She tugs at it angrily, and she’s just turning around to try another way out when Killian slides around a pillar, and raises his pistol.

“Stop!”

She freezes, staring at the pistol in his hand. He takes a step forward, raising the pistol to aim it at her chest and he jerks it towards the crossbow over her shoulders.

“Drop the crossbow, and put your hands up.”

She doesn’t move, and as the others come around the pillar, guns pointed at her, she smirks. Moving slowly and deliberately, she pulls the crossbow down from her shoulders, dropping it on the ground in front of her.

“There. Happy?”

Captain Humbert kicks the crossbow off to the side, his pistol still trained on her. Regina watches his movement like a caged animal, her gaze flickering to the other pistols aimed at her.

She frowns, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “I thought you Musketeers were supposed to be an honourable lot. You’d really shoot an unarmed woman?”

“We’re not going to shoot you,” Killian says calmly, though his fingers twitch to the trigger even as he says it. “We want answers.”

She tilts her head at him, something cold runs down Killian’s spine at the expression in her eyes, his grip on the pistol tightening ever so slightly.

“You have an accent, soldier. Where are you from?” 

He narrows his eyes, suspicion raising the hair on the back of his neck, but before he can question her, Robin steps forward, his hands shaking so badly his pistol is wavering in his grip.

“How are you alive? You’re supposed to be dead.”

Regina tears her eyes from Killian, her features darkening as she looks over Robin. She shakes her head with a dark chuckle, a thousand words of hatred and anger in the sound alone.

“Oh, Robin dear, I thought you hadn’t noticed me.”

His eyes flash, and he takes another step towards her. “They told me they executed you. I don’t understand.”

She laughs again, and spreads her arms wide, undisturbed by his pistol in her face. “Well, that’s obviously a lie. Much as you wanted me dead, here I am.”

“You killed Marian.” Robin’s voice is low, just barely shaking, and his grip tightens on the pistol. “I had no choice.”

Fury flashes in her eyes, and her mocking attitude finally snaps. She surges forward, paying no attention to the way the Musketeers all drop a finger to the triggers on the pistol.

“No choice? There’s _always_ a choice, Robin! You could have defended me! You swore to be with me in good times and bad and the moment –”

“I loved her, Regina! I loved her and you killed her!”

Regina recoils as if he slapped her. A crazed edge appears in Robin’s eyes, and he lifts his pistol higher, directing it right at her chest.

Killian panics. He doesn’t want Regina dead – they need her alive to get answers for Gillert’s death and the attacks. If she dies, those answers will die with her and they may never know who has been targeting Emma for months.

(And, if he’s being honest, he knows that somewhere deep down, Robin would never be able to forgive himself if he killed the woman he once loved – Killian can’t let his friend do that to himself.)

“Don’t shoot!”

He grabs Robin’s arm, but he’s too late. The shot is fired off, but with Killian’s grip, Robin’s aim is disrupted and bullet fires up into the ceiling above them instead of into Regina’s heart.

Robin rips himself free of Killian with a roar as plaster and wood splinters drop down upon them. Regina is removing her arms from where she’d covered her face, and she locks gazes with Killian, a look of complete surprise echoing across her face.

It’s gone almost immediately, replaced with cold darkness, and she twists her lips into a pout, a maniacal mockery of concern and worry.

“Oh dear. That was a mistake.”

Everything seems to go in slow motion. Regina reaches behind her and grabs a pistol from the back of her dress, raising it in a fluid motion. Though both Robin and Killian flinch, she doesn’t aim it at them, instead pointing it at Captain Humbert to her left. Before he can react much other than widening his eyes, Regina pulls the trigger.

The shell explodes from the end of the pistol and Captain Humbert is knocked backwards by the force of it, his chest ripped open in a bloody, horrific moment. He stumbles backwards, gasping once, twice, and then he’s falling, crumbling, collapsing onto the ground.

The three Musketeers scream as Captain Humbert falls, the shouts of horror echoing and reverberating through the high ceilings and making it sound like a chorus of screams.

Regina forgotten, Killian leaves Robin’s side and drops onto his knees into the growing pool of blood at Captain Humbert’s side. He pulls away the heavy coat in the way of the wound, the fabric turned heavy and thick with the gushing blood.

“No, no, no.”

There’s nothing to be done. Already, Captain Humbert’s chest is no longer rising with breath, his mouth parted slightly but with no air coming through. His eyes stare up to the decorated ceiling, open and wide and empty, the beautiful artwork created as a testament to faith and trust of the people reflected and unseen.

David and Robin are at his side now too, pulling at the captain’s shirt and shaking him. Killian leans back, shock making hot tears fill his eyes, the fury and grief nearly overwhelming him in an instant.

He looks up, ready to kill Regina, but the upper level is empty, Regina gone as if she was never there at all.

<> 

When Killian was younger, there were many nights aboard ships where he lay awake, sleepless as storms ravaged the ship. Thrashing waves, flashing lightening, deafening thunder – all a recipe for terror for a young boy.

But now, as he walks through the garrison, plunged into chaos in the midst of the captain’s death, a literal storm of grief and anger and disbelief around him, he can’t seem to feel anything.

Some of the younger recruits are crying, others staring into space with wide, empty eyes. Lancelot, always the calmest and most level headed of them all, has smashed three wine bottles already, the red merlot staining the stone ground a horrible reminder of bloody church floor.

David, Killian and Will left the church after Regina, determined to track her down and make her pay for what she’d done, but there was no trace of her and they returned empty handed a few hours ago, all red-eyed and furious. Back at the garrison, Robin’s nowhere in sight, and Killian can’t help but feel grateful for that. He disappeared from the church too, but right now Killian can’t find it in himself to care where he is. 

 _Captain Humbert is dead_.

_If I had let Robin shoot her, he’d be alive._

_It’s my fault._

He drops down at one of the outdoor tables, the very one where he ate breakfast with the captain that morning. He stares at the empty seat across from him, not sure how long he’s there before in the midst of the chaos around him, Mary Margaret arrives in the courtyard.

She takes one look at them all, at the tears and the grief and the broken wine bottles, and takes charge. The younger, crying recruits are sent off on a walk to get some fresh air, as is Lancelot who has to physically turn around and march to the gates. The ones who remain behind are put to work cleaning up the smashed wine bottles, sweeping away the glass and dumping water over the stained rocks.

Distantly, Killian realizes he should get up and help her, he should go comfort the younger recruits and his fellows, but he can’t move, still staring at the empty chair Captain Humbert sat in just this morning.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault_.

Mary Margaret rests a hand on his arm, and he jolts out of the reverie, and she smiles softly at him. “Go get some sleep, Killian. You need it.”

He doesn’t want to do anything, except get back out into the streets and track Regina down, but Mary Margaret raises a stern eyebrow at him, and he gets up without a word, without a thought. Upstairs, he drops into his bunk like a rock, still fully dressed but not caring at all how uncomfortable he is. Like when he was younger, when the storms raged around him with no end in sight, sleep is not coming any time soon. He rolls over, punching the wall behind his bed hard enough to split his knuckles open, barely even feeling the pain of that with all the emotional pain scrawling itself a home in his heart, an etching set in stone.

 _This is my fault_.

<> 

In the shadow of the Saint-Pierre de Montmarte, in the small village outside Paris where Regina has lived for the past months, news of the attempted assassination on the queen and the death of the Musketeer captain is still streets away. Here, where calmness remains, where the heat of the day has faded into a cool, breezy summer eve, people are out and about, talking and laughing and celebrating the day off work for the royal couple’s anniversary.

Regina shoves her way through all of them, keeping her head down and eyes to the ground. She had thought that the Musketeers were trailing her after she left the church, a flash of a blue cloak here and there. But that faded after she darted in and out of several streets, ducking behind columns and vendors’ carts, and she knows by now that if they were there at all, she’s lost them for sure.

In her tiny apartment, Regina latches all five locks across the door, and sinks against the door onto the floor. She left the crossbow behind at the church, but it’s as if she can still feel its weight across her back, and she stretches out her legs, twisting her upper body to try and relieve some of the pressure.

It doesn’t help, and she presses her hands into her eyes until she sees stars. When she removes her hands, they’re shaking, and she frowns.

Killing is something she’s done for as long as she can remember, but she can’t remember her hands ever shaking like this after taking someone’s life.

But perhaps it’s not _her_ actions that have made her hands unable to stop shaking tonight.

Robin almost _killed_ her.

And another Musketeer – the queen’s favourite, Jones – _saved_ her.

Moments earlier, he nearly saw the queen die at her hand and he still stopped Robin from killing her.

Regina shakes her head, and scrambles up to her feet, heading to her small kitchen to try calm herself down by brewing herself a cup of tea. Kindness and mercy ... that’s something she’s never understood, but somehow, when faced with having to shoot one of the Musketeers to escape, she knew she couldn’t shoot Jones, not after he saved her.  

As she brews the tea, stoking the fire and warming the water, she thinks more about him. Gold was right; Jones does have an accent, and she frowns, trying to place it. Since her escape from her jail cell years ago in the shithole of a town that tried to hang her, Regina’s done her fair share of travelling around Europe. She’d gone to Spain, to the Netherlands, and to England, where Gold had found her several months ago.

That’s when it clicks – Jones isn’t French at all.

He’s English.

There’s a sharp knock on her door then, so sudden that Regina jumps several feet in the air, her tea cup sent shattering onto the floor and her hand automatically to her dagger at her hip.

Perhaps the Musketeers did manage to find her after all.

She thinks about just ignoring the door, pretending no one is home, but the smoke from her fire for the tea would have alerted them to someone’s presence here, not to mention the teacup she just broke.

Regina approaches the door slowly, raising her dagger in case the door comes bursting down.

“Who’s there?”

“Red Guards,” a gruff voice answers, and Regina’s stomach turns; it would have been better if it had been Musketeers.

“Go away! You’re not welcome here!”

There’s silence on the other side of the door, and Regina takes a cautious step forwards, straining to hear when the door, five locks and all, comes crashing down right in front of her. She yelps in alarm, scrambling backwards as the heavy oak careens to the floor, raising dust and flooding the room with light.

She glares at the now open doorway, filled with two Red Guards holding a small battering ram. They smirk at her, stepping aside, the door filled instead with something worse than the Red Guards and the Musketeers combined.

Gold.

He steps into the apartment, sniffing as he looks around, distaste curling his lip. “What a hovel you’ve got here, Regina.”

He comes closer, peering disapprovingly at the broken teacup on the floor, and Regina grips the dagger tighter in her hand, so hard her knuckles turn white.

“How did you find me? What do you want?”

Gold glances to her, and frowns at the dagger in her hand. “Put that down, Regina. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

Regina tightens her grip on it.

His brow furrows, as if he’s offended she doesn’t trust his word, and he holds his hands up in peace. “I came to talk to you.”

“About what?” she spits.

“About our contingency plan, of course.”

The contingency plan – figuring out if there is anything going on between the queen and her Musketeer ... the Musketeer who saved Regina’s life.

“I don’t know anything.”

But she hesitated a moment too long before speaking, and Gold frowns. He steps further into the apartment, stepping purposefully on the broken teacup, the glass crunching under his foot.

“Well, that’s not good.”

He jerks his head, and four Red Guards enter her apartment, heading straight for her. Four to one – not the worst she’s odds she’s ever had. She slashes the nearest with her dagger, cutting his cheek, but two others grab her arms, the final one reaching forward and punching her in the stomach.

The dagger clatters to the ground as she gasps for air, thrashing against the Red Guards holding her arms. Their grip is so tight it’s bruising, and she glares up to Gold.

“You said – you said you wouldn’t hurt me, what –”

Gold chuckles, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watches the scene in front of him. “True, Regina. I said _I_ wouldn’t hurt you.”

The guard who hit her lifts his fist again, winding up for another shot, and Regina makes a split-second decision; self preservation over fair play.  

“He’s English! The Musketeer, Killian Jones. I recognized his accent.”

She squeezes her eyes shut as the Red Guard swings his fist, but the hit never comes. When she opens her eyes again, Gold has laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, staring at her with wide, cold eyes.

“What did you say?”

She doesn’t say anything this time, glaring at him until he waves the Red Guards off. They release her, and she pulls away, her breath heavy as she fights to regain all the air to her lungs.

“I said,” she manages a few moments later, trying not to gasp, “that he’s English. I spent a lot of time with Englishmen who tried to speak French to cozy up with me in England, and I recognize the accent.”

Gold breaks into a smile, the triumphant smile of a man winning a great prize, and Regina thinks that he’s never looked more frightening.

“Thank you, Regina. I knew you’d come in handy one day.” 

He turns on his heel, flicking his hand at the Red Guards who immediately move to his side. They exit the apartment without a word, marching out as a unit, but Gold pauses in the doorway, looking back to her with an unreadable expression.  

“I hope you said goodbye to your Musketeer, milady, because when I’m done, there won’t be any of them left alive.”

Regina stiffens, and Gold’s smile widens. He turns, and with a flick of his red cloak, disappears from her apartment, leaving Regina alone in silence with nothing but her broken teacup and busted door.

She stares at the empty doorway, her heart pounding. She doesn’t know how Gold found out about her past; she didn’t tell him why she was a French assassin living in England, but maybe she was naïve to think he didn’t know. He’s the one to summon her from her hiding place in England, after all – he must have done his research on her.

Regina straightens her back, and picks up the dagger from where it fell, wiping away the Red Guard’s blood on her skirt and tucking it back in its holder at her hip.

Robin may have left her for dead years ago and he may have wanted to kill her this afternoon, but there’s no way she’s going to let Gold hurt him; if anyone is going to kill him, it’s going to be her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/167313920013/if-the-stars-align-chapter-12-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter XIII

The funeral takes place three days later. It’s a quiet affair, hosted in a local church with few guests. When the king learned of Captain Humbert’s death, he wanted to host a lavish funeral, with full military honours, but that wasn’t something the captain would have wanted. He was a simple man, honourable and loyal, and he would have wanted a quiet, dignified service instead of one full of people he’d never met.

At the church, squashed between a sniffling Will and a stony David in one of the pews, Killian is numb to everything around him. Lancelot’s eulogy and the priest’s words wash over him, an incoherent hum drowned out by the words on repeat in his mind.

 _This is my fault_.

None of the other Musketeers have said anything of the sort, but he knows they’re thinking it. In the three days since Captain Humbert’s death, Killian can count on one hand the amount of times someone has made eye contact with him or said anything not related to their work duties. And, honestly, he can’t blame them – the words the Musketeers aren’t saying are the same words he’s been asking himself for three days.

_Why didn’t you let Robin kill Regina?_

_Captain Humbert would be alive if you did._

_Robin blames you._

Killian hasn’t seen Robin since Captain Humbert’s death, but he knows that one is the truest of them all. Will mentioned briefly that he’s staying at _La Lune_ , too upset to be anywhere near the barracks right now, not with Captain Humbert’s belongings still there, not when three days ago, he was alive and well.

David and Will suddenly get to their feet beside him, others rising behind them, and the small church fills with a low, conversational hum. The priest must’ve finished the sermon, dismissing the mourners, and Killian gets to his feet too. Though the other Musketeers remain at the front of the church, talking quietly to the priest, Killian follows the crowd as they all shuffle to the back of the church, desperately needing some fresh air.

In the last row of pews, three women remain seated as the rest of the church files out. They are all dressed the same, black veils over their heads, simple black gowns with not a drop of ornamentation. No one pays them any attention, thinking them other mourners, but Killian pauses beside them – he would recognize that golden hair anywhere, even hidden under veil.

“You didn’t have to come, Your Majesty.”   

“Of course I did,” Emma replies, gaze over his shoulder on the closed casket at the front of the church, her voice solemn and quiet. “Captain Humbert was a loyal soldier, one who died in my service. I had to come and pay my respects.”

She glances to him, and though Killian thinks he’s kept his emotions pretty well hidden under a stony face, he knows instantly he hasn’t fooled her. She leans forward, resting a hand on his arm, squeezing his arm.

“Are you alright?”

“’Course.”

She frowns, unconvinced, but Killian is spared a further lie because Lancelot arrives at his side, bowing slightly at Emma when he realizes it’s her.

“We’re going out to the gravesite now.”

Killian and Lancelot return to the front of the church to help David and Will carry out the casket while Emma and her two ladies exit the church. The weight of the coffin is heavy, but nothing compared to the weight of the guilt, and he relishes the ache he feels in his just-healed chest wound as he shifts his weight.

He almost falters as he steps out of the church, his gaze focusing in on the freshly dug grave across the small cemetery. There’s a small crowd there, and they part as they bring the casket down the slope, lowering it with ropes into the ground.

The priest steps forward to speak once more, but his words are meaningless; Captain Humbert can’t hear the praises and compliments, can’t chuckle at the funny anecdotes, can’t do _anything_ anymore.

And it’s all Killian’s fault.

The crowd starts to shift away, murmuring quietly to each other, but Killian doesn’t move. David notices, and claps him on the back, squeezing his shoulder.

“We’ll be at the barracks. When you’re ready.”

He nods numbly, staring at the gave and wishing, _wishing_ he’d been the one shot by Regina instead, if only to not feel this enormous guilt and regret weighing him down like an anchor.

“He was a good man.”

The voice startles him out of his daze and he realizes Emma is there beside him, staring sadly at the grave. They’re the only two remaining in the cemetery now, even Emma’s ladies gone, their only company the sweetly singing robins in the nearby willow trees.

Killian nods and swallows deeply. “Aye. He was.”

He allows her to turn him away from the grave a few minutes later, and with no one else around and her veil still covering her features, she links her arm with his, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

She leads them away from the grave, the pair of them walking in silence. It’s not until they’ve reached the small path on the outskirts of the cemetery that Killian speaks, the words spilling out of him like wind forced from his lungs from a sucker punch.

“It’s my fault.”

“It is not your fault –” Emma counters immediately, but now that he’s started talking, the words keep coming, a relentless downpour.  

“It is. I stopped Robin from killing Regina and she turned right around and shot Captain Humbert. If I hadn’t stopped Robin, if I had just let him shoot her, then the captain would still be alive.”

Emma moves to stand opposite him, bracing her hands on his arms. “That’s because _you_ are a good man too, Killian. Captain Humbert would be proud of you. You showed her mercy by not letting Robin kill her. It’s not your fault she’s a monster.”

“I didn’t do it for _her_ ,” he grinds out, shaking his head; he won’t let her try and talk him out of this. “I did it – I did it because we needed answers, and because ... because as much as he hates her, Robin couldn’t have lived with himself if he killed her. And now because of that, Captain Humbert is lying in the cold ground and it’s my fault.”

Emma rests her hand on his upper arm, squeezing his arm tightly. “Then you did it for your friend, Killian. And that is what good men do.”

He just shakes his head. He’s not a good man, not at all. He’s standing there, feet from the fresh grave with Emma, the Queen of France, who could die just like Captain Humbert because of _him_.

In the chaos and mind-numbing pain of the last week, Cardinal Gold’s dark comment and darker eyes had drifted to the back of his mind, ever present but lurking on the edge of his conscious. And now, with a moment of privacy and silence, he tells Emma what he heard.

She listens with narrowed eyes, and doesn’t say anything for a few moments when he’s done talking. Then she shakes her head, her grip tightening on his arm, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“I don’t know if Gold does suspect something from what you’ve said, but he doesn’t scare me. He’s never scared me. We’ll just have to be more careful when he’s around from now on, okay?”

“Emma, it’s becoming too dangerous –”

Her eyes flash, and she barrels right over him. “I don’t care what Gold thinks he knows or doesn’t. I’m not losing you, Killian. My whole life has been one of order and performing the wishes of everyone else, and I haven’t felt like myself in a long time … not until a good man treated me like I was just a normal woman.”

She steps forward, pulling the veil up and over her head, and cups his face in her hands. He wonders if he’s ever noticed how green her eyes really are, how they sparkle like gems in the sunlight.

“I love you, Killian.”

He stares back at her, stunned. Then he surges forward, capturing her lips with his, and she wraps her arms around his neck. He can taste salt on her lips, and he’s not sure if its her tears or his. He holds her around the waist, pulling her closer, both of them holding each as close as possible, as if they’re each the others’ lifeline, as if no one else in the world matters. Gold, the king, Death himself – they and their threats fall away, and it’s just Emma and Killian, time standing still around them.

He closes his eyes again when they break apart finally, leaning his forehead against hers and savouring this precious moment.

“I love you too.”

<> 

In light of Captain Humbert’s death, Lancelot is named the new captain of the Musketeers. There’s normally a ceremony of great pomp and circumstance, held at the Louvre itself, but this time the transition of power is quiet, the mantle passed on too soon and no cause for celebration.

A week after the funeral, Lancelot summons Killian, David, Will, and Robin to the office. Robin finally returned to the barracks a few days ago, eyes bloodshot and face thin, and he’s been quiet since, keeping to himself and talking to no one. In fact, the Musketeers have hardly said anything to each other at all, each grieving in their own way, and when Lancelot summons them, Killian assumes this meeting is going to be about how they’ll all have to move forward and leave their grief behind.

He and David are the last to arrive to the office, and Killian pauses in the doorway, taking in the room, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut. The office is full of Captain Humbert’s things – his jacket, his boots, his personal effects – and the sight of all of it, abandoned and left behind, makes Killian want to run in the opposite direction.

David nudges him forward and into the room, and Killian swallows those feelings away. Robin and Will are already seated, staring at the floor, and once they’re all seated, Lancelot begins. With seriousness dripping from his voice, he explains that everyone needs to trust each other, especially in the light of what has happened. Everyone needs to stop blaming themselves – here he glances pointedly to Robin and Killian – and focus on who really is responsible.

Regina.

The door to the office edges open, revealing a nervous recruit, and he steps into the room.

“Sir –”

“Not now,” Lancelot says shortly, frowning at the interruption. “I asked not to be interrupted.”

The young man doesn’t move. “I know, but sir – this is an emergency. It’s – it’s _her_. She’s here.” 

Killian has no idea who he means, but he takes in the young man’s clenched fists, teeth gritted together in anger, and he realizes only one person could cause such a reaction.

The others all come to the same conclusion, and everyone shoots to their feet, out the door in seconds and clambering over each other to look down into the courtyard from their place on the second level of the barracks.

Standing there, the recruits giving her a wide berth, with a sublime smile and dressed as if she should be attending a royal ball instead of a grieving soldiers’ barracks, is Regina.

Will lets out a roar of anger, and shoves the others out of his way.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

He jumps down the steps two at a time, hand already drawing his pistol. Killian is the closest behind him, and sees Will raise the pistol, but he doesn’t move to stop him – he saved this woman once already, and look where that got them.

David must sense Killian’s inaction, because he leaps ahead, grabbing Will’s arms and pulling him backs.

“Don’t kill her, Will,” he says, shooting Regina a deadly glare as he holds Will back. “We’re not murderers like her.”

Lancelot and Robin join them in the courtyard, the Musketeers fanning out in a line to face her. Robin stands stiffly, his eyes betraying nothing but a cold hatred as he surveys his estranged wife.

On her part, Regina surveys them all with a smirk, but Killian notices she’s missing her usual _oomph._ She lifts her hands up in surrender, and says, coolly, “There’s no need for violence, gentlemen. I come in peace.”

“You don’t know the meaning of peace,” Will snarls, pulling hard at David’s arms.

Regina levels a cold glare at him, and lifts her chin with a touch of defiance. “I know you all hate me, and you have every right to. But you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say,” Killian says, starting to feeling sick at her casual entrance into their barracks, as if she has no care in the world the man she killed used to live upstairs. “You’ve done enough.”

Her jaw tightens. “Be that as it may, you’ll want to hear this.”

Lancelot crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

She shakes her head, eyes flickering over Killian for a moment, and he really feels sick now.

“In private.”

It’s a tense walk back up to the office, and this time it’s almost harder for Killian to enter, to see Regina where Captain Humbert once lived. The others don’t seem to notice, and Will snaps, “Get on with it” the moment the door swings shut behind Robin.

Regina levels another cool, unimpressed glance at Will before her eyes flick to Killian. The bad feeling magnifies, cold and terrible and –

“The Cardinal knows there is something between you and the queen.”

The floor drops out from under him.

 _No, no_ –

He leans against the doorframe, winded. Robin’s eyes burn a hole through him, while the other three Musketeers stare at Killian, totally bewildered.

“What are you on about?” David demands. “The Cardinal knows about _what_?”

Killian doesn’t say anything. He can’t focus on thinking of a way to explain this to them, when all he can think about now is what he’s done, what he’s done to Emma, what this will do to the both of them.

Robin sighs angrily when it becomes apparent Killian won’t be saying anything. He too ignores the others, and glares at Regina.

“How do _you_ know that?”

But before she can answer, Lancelot holds up a hand. “Wait – wait, there – there is something between you and the queen?”

Killian manages a nod, and the Musketeers gape at him. Lancelot looks like he’s been stunned after a brutal blow, David’s eyes are wide, and Will’s jaw drops open.

“You and the _queen_? The _queen_? Mate –”

“Now’s not the time to worry about your comrade’s bedroom affairs,” Regina snaps. “The cardinal knows and he’s going to use it against her. He’s going to arrest Jones and try to execute Queen Emma because of the affair.”

_Execute._

_Oh God –_

“But how do you know that?” Robin asks again. He straightens abruptly then, realization dawning in his eyes. “It was him, wasn’t it? He’s the one who hired you to try to kill Queen Emma.”

The Musketeers turn their attention away from Killian, the room falling deathly quiet as they stare at Regina. She sighs, looking uncomfortable, and nods.

“Yes, it was him.”

“Why?” Lancelot demands. “Why would Cardinal Gold want her dead?”

Regina shrugs, as if it’s obvious. “He wants to be the pope.”

No one says anything, confusion settling over them, and Will lets out a barked laugh.

“Am I the only one not seeing any logic here? How is killing our queen gonna make Gold the _pope_?”

Regina waves her hand impatiently. “I know you lot are soldiers, but think for a moment about politics, okay? The Italians have their candidate for the next pope already, so to become pope, Gold would need the support of the Spanish cardinals. They won’t support him while the French queen is a Protestant, and well, they want one of their princesses as queen instead. If Queen Emma wasn’t around anymore ...”

“I don’t understand,” David says into the silence lingering after Regina’s sentence. “If Gold needs Queen Emma out of the way to be pope, why not make the king _divorce_ her? Kings have done that before, and Emma wouldn’t have to die.”

“You’ve been hit around the head too much, haven’t you?” Regina says, rolling her eyes as if David is the biggest fool alive. “Catholics can’t divorce, remember? Last time a king tried that, all of England left the Church. Just ask your friend Jones here.”

His heart skips a beat as the Musketeers all look over to him again. The last thing he needs right now is his English heritage dumped out in front of him too, something he doesn’t know how Regina could possibly know about either.

“What?”

Regina sighs, and shakes her head. “Forget about that for now. We’ve got more pressing matters, yes?”

Though their eyes linger on Killian for a moment, they look away and back to Regina.

“Even if what you’re saying is true, that this – this affair with Killian is true, the king will never kill the queen,” Lancelot says, stubbornly.

“The cardinal has more influence than you think,” Regina replies darkly. “Why do you think you lot weren’t allowed near the Louvre for weeks after my bandits failed at St. Meissa? And now this – he’ll say it will be an embarrassment to let her live or for the king to allow her crime to be so lightly punished. He’ll manipulate the king into killing her, no matter what that idiot of a monarch actually wants. He’ll tell him it’ll be more secure for the Dauphin’s future if his mother is gone and no longer able to influence him, or something of the sort. Trust me. He’s got it sorted out.”

The room is starting to feel overwhelmingly hot, and Killian sinks against the doorframe even more heavily.

He needs to talk to Emma right now.

“Why the bloody hell should we trust you?” Will snarls. “You’re the reason our captain is dead. What’s to say this ain’t a ploy to get us all _and_ the queen to boot?”

She straightens, her eyes turning icy. “You can either believe me, or not, but if you don’t, both your queen and your friend will die.”

No one says anything for a long while. Killian’s about to just leave them all here, turn on his heel and head straight to the Louvre, when Robin speaks again, voice wary.

“If you’re wrong –”

“I’m not.”

“Why tell us?” Lancelot demands. “This seems out of character for you.”

She shifts, now looking distinctly uncomfortable, and she glances over to Killian, eyes unreadable. “You saved me at Saint-Eustache. Warning you about this makes us equal.”

Killian stares at her for a long moment, arms crossed and eyes dark. She meets his gaze evenly, and though revulsion rises in him – this woman has tried to kill Emma multiple times, succeeded in killing Captain Humbert and Monsieur Gillert, she didn’t have to warn him about this. And yet, here she is.

Forgiveness or anything of the sort is nowhere in sight, but he nods tightly, accepting her word; he can recognize good form when he sees it.

He pulls away from the doorway, hand dropping to the sword at his belt, and regards his fellow Musketeers with a tight jaw, determination etching itself into his posture.

“I have to tell Emma.”

<> 

Emma takes the news as well as can be expected. She listens in silence to Robin’s explanation of the events, eyes dark and serious, and when he’s done, looks over to Killian. He’s sure she must see the fear in his eyes before he can mask it, and she turns back to the others.

“Can you give us a moment, please?”

The Musketeers don’t move, David crossing his arms over his chest, Will and Lancelot raising their eyebrows and looking between Emma and Killian with pointed stares.

Emma’s eyes flash, and she drops her hands to hips. “A minute please, gentlemen.”

Her voice offers no chances for arguments, and they shoot Killian dark looks as they skulk reluctantly through the west doors. As soon as the door shuts, leaving Emma and Killian alone and with the sound echoing up through the large hall, words spill out from Killian, unbidden.

“I’m so sorry, Emma, I never meant for this to happen. I’ll send in my resignation before he does anything, get out of Paris as quick as I can.”

Emma shakes her head vehemently. “You’re not going to resign. If you leave in a rush, it’ll tell Gold he’s right.” She takes his hands, holding them tightly. “This – this is the worst-case scenario, but we’ll figure something out, together. Okay?”

She stands on her tip toes to wrap her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her and pressing a kiss against his cheek.

The east doors fling open, so suddenly that they spring apart as if jolted by lightning. Cardinal Gold strides into the hall, spreading his arms wide in exclamation, with a cohort of Red Guards filing in behind him.

“Well, isn’t this precious. Caught in the act.”

Emma steps in front of Killian, twisting to push him slightly behind her, but doesn’t release his hand.

“What do you want, Cardinal?”

“I’m not here for you, dearie,” he says loudly, and his eyes slide to Killian, dark and triumphant. “You, Killian Jones, are an English spy, sent here by the English king to undermine the stability of the French court, and as such, you are hereby charged with adultery and high treason, and are ordered executed three days hence.” He flicks his head to the Red Guards, and they step forward automatically. “Seize him.”

His heart stops, and Emma fully in front of now, raising one hand and standing to her full height as the Red Guards advance.

“I forbid you to touch him. Do so, and you yourself disobey your monarch and I will have _you_ charged with treason.”

Even though these are Red Guards, loyal to no one but Gold, they do hesitate, staring uncertainly between her and Gold.

The cardinal sighs, annoyed. “I had hoped to avoid any unpleasantries, but you leave me no choice.” He withdraws a scroll from his cloak, unrolling it and reading aloud: “By order of His Majesty, the King of France, you, madame, are to be confined to your chambers until such time the king has determined what a suitable punishment for your crimes of adultery and treason.”

The floor drops out from Killian the second time that day, and Emma’s shoulders stiffen. Her grip on his hand tightens, and she doesn’t move from Killian’s side.

“Did you know your lover was an English spy, Your Majesty?” Gold asks, voice quiet. “No doubt your whispered pillow conversations are already the daily dinner talk of the English court. Or perhaps you’re a spy with him too? After all, heretics tend to group together.”

Emma doesn’t even flinch. “You are a liar, Cardinal. This is an order from you, not the king.”

Gold laughs a demented giggle, sending chills up the back of Killian’s neck at the sound. “You can look at the warrant, dearie. But I assure you the royal seal is there. Let’s not waste our time with any more stall tactics you have up your sleeves. I have been authorized to use any sort of force necessary to comply with the king’s wishes; shall we move up the traitor’s execution date to right now, or will you both come quietly?”

Again, neither Emma or Killian move. Killian looks around the room, judging how long it would take for him to grab Emma and run to the west doors across the hall before the Red Guards could shoot them, and almost as if Gold senses Killian’s thoughts, the cardinal stiffens and gestures his guards forward.

“Arrest them.”

This time, the guards obey, marching forward and grab them both by their arms. Killian is pulled roughly away, his hand ripped from Emma’s, and he thrashes against their grasp. Two more descend upon him, pulling him back so roughly he nearly falls to the ground.

Emma tries to break free of her guards too, stomping on their feet and twisting her body out of their hands, but they pull her back, holding her still as Gold steps forward.

“This is what happens to people who get in my way,” he says softly, his voice is as cold as if the Devil himself was speaking. “I'd stop fighting if I were you, Your Majesty. Lest you want him tortured before I kill him.”

Emma’s eyes turn hard and stony, and Gold’s lips edge up into a mockery of a smile as she stops pulling at the guards. Smirking he turns around and flicks his hand at the Red Guards.

“Get the rest of the Musketeers when they come in. None of them leave here except in chains, understood?”

Guards head towards the west doors, and by chance one of the doors opens a crack, David sticking his head into the room to see what is going on.

“Get out of here!” Killian screams; he can’t take everyone down with him too.

The guards holding him punch him hard in the stomach, and he buckles over in pain. When he looks up again, gasping and panting, the Red Guards are just wrenching the door open again, exiting the room to chase after the Musketeers.

“Now, now,” Gold says, anger flashing in his eyes. “That’s enough of that. Take these traitors away, him to the Bastille, the queen to her rooms. _Now_!”

Killian is winded from the punch, but he still pulls furiously at the guards holding him as they wrench him upright. One of them punches him again, this time across the face, and his head snaps backwards, his cheek exploding in pain.

“Stop!” Emma shouts.

She’s struggling with her own guards, but there’s no chance for either of them. Her guards pull her out towards one set of doors, Killian’s to another, and her shout of anger and his shout of her name are the last thing Killian hears before the guard punches him across the face again, the world going black and silent in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, whatever's going to happen now??
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Just a few chapters left!
> 
> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/167560633298/if-the-stars-align-chapter-13-by


	14. Chapter XIV

Hours go by.

Emma paces the length of her bedroom at least a hundred times, hating every moment she’s kept here without any knowledge of what’s going on. She has no idea what Henry’s been told nor what has happened to Killian nor what has happened to the rest of the Musketeers.

She railed against the doors for a long time after the guards first brought her here, yelling and calling for Neal to be brought to her, but to no avail. The guards keep telling her he’s too angry to speak with her right, but Emma isn’t fooled. Either Neal isn’t here or he doesn’t even know she’s been placed under arrest. Though they have grown apart this past decade, there’s no way he could have sanctioned something like this ... right?

She yelled for Henry too, knowing for certain that her son is at the palace, hopefully still in his lessons and unaware of what is going on. She wants to tell him herself, not for him to hear biased lies or the twisted truth from anyone else. When the guards refused her yet again, Emma threw a vase against the door, shattering the crystal and scattering shards of glass and ripped flower petals all around the room.

It has no effect.

As the sky darkens, Emma thinks about scaling the walls down from her room, being three storeys up notwithstanding. She throws open the windows, leaning out and peering down into the dark garden. To her annoyance, there are several Red Guards down below, and they look up.

“Don’t even think about it, Majesty,” one calls up to her, and the others guffaw in laughter.

Emma swears at them, but shuts the window angrily upon their laughs, clenching her hands. If only she had a weapon ...

She returns to her pacing, even more furious now, when she hears movement outside her door and she freezes in place.

“Stop where you are!” one of the guards shouts, and Emma bolts over to the door. She presses her ear against the wood, straining to hear. She can hear the _clack_ of footsteps growing louder, and a woman’s voice responds to the guards.

“I am the Queen’s lady-in-waiting! You have no right to deny me admittance to see her. It’s dark outside; have you even brought her something to eat?”

Relief swells over Emma; it’s Mary Margaret.

The guards mutter amongst themselves for a moment, before, to Emma’s supreme surprise, the lock in her door twists and the door swings open. Mary Margaret steps in, a tray of covered food in her hands, and Emma nearly knocks it out of her hands as she wraps Mary Margaret into a tight embrace.

“I’m so glad to see you! They won’t let me see Neal or Henry. Do you know what’s going on? Where are the Musketeers? Where’s Killian?”

Mary Margaret glances behind her to the closed doors, and sets down the tray of food, and directs Emma to have a seat on the bed before saying anything. She grasps her tightly, and Emma knows the news can’t be good. 

“Henry’s heard you’re in trouble, but he doesn’t know the whole story. He’s upset, but I put him to bed and he’s asleep now.”

Emma nods, though her heart squeezes in pain. She wonders if the guards left the door unlocked, if she could run out there and comfort Henry herself, to reassure him that everything will be alright.

“Neal is out hunting, and he’s gone all day and will be away until tomorrow, so I don’t know if he’s aware of what is going on.”

“He must not be,” Emma says, desperately trying to believe the man she once loved wouldn’t do this to her. “He would never allow Gold to arrest me in such a manner.” She braces herself to ask the next question: “And what about Killian?”

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath. “I only know that after the Red Guards arrested him, they took him to the Bastille. They made a big show of it, him being a Musketeer and English. I think he’s still there, but I – well, they won’t let me anywhere near the prison.”

Emma refuses to let herself fall apart, though her heart skips a beat at the word _Bastille._ She rises to her feet, beginning her pacing again.

“Okay, well, we’ve still got the trial, Gold can’t do anything to him in the meantime, and Neal will be back soon –”

“I don’t think there will be a trial,” Mary Margaret whispers, and Emma freezes.

“ _What_? There _has_ to be a trial, Gold can’t –”

“You know what he did with those Bastille guards,” says Mary Margaret darkly, and a shiver of fear runs down Emma’s spine. She remembers all too well – the rogue guards sent to the gallows without a trial, without a chance to defend themselves.

She needs to get out of here and get Killian out of Gold’s grasp.

She says as much to Mary Margaret, and her friend nods. “I was just with the Musketeers. They’re coming to get you and Killian tonight. With Neal away and Gold in charge … it’s not safe for either of you to remain under his control.”

Emma pesters her for more information, but Mary Margaret doesn’t know much about the plan, as she’d left to return to the Louvre before it got too dark. Knowing they are coming makes Emma more anxious to get out of here, and she returns to pacing, every sound from outside her doors raising her hopes and dashing them just as quickly when it turns out to be nothing but the guards shuffling around.

After a while, Mary Margaret tries to make her eat and to sleep for a few hours. Emma’s stomach is twisted in knots, and when she does manage to lie down for a few hours, her dreams are restless and even darker than reality. She wakes up screaming, the images of a bloody Killian burned into her mind, and though Mary Margaret hugs her and reassures her it was just a dream, Emma can’t fall asleep again.

Emma is hardly ever awake this late at night, and the palace is eerily quiet all around them. The guards outside are scuffling and muttering to themselves, but that’s it. No servants chattering, no courtiers plotting, nothing. Emma and Mary Margaret don’t say anything either, just sitting up in the dark room, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Around four in the morning, Emma’s moved from her bed to sit on the window sill, staring out at the stars and wondering if Killian can see them from whatever cell they’ve put him in. The night is cloudy, only a few stars visible, and to Emma’s dismay, Polaris is entirely hidden from view. She’s not one for signs from the heavens, but that’s a bad one if there ever was, and she pulls the curtains shut.

Two heavy thuds sound from outside her door, followed by grunts and muffled yells and whispered voices. Mary Margaret scrambles to her feet and Emma jumps up, heart leaping into her throat. Beside her is another vase, and she picks it up, ready to attack lest it’s another set of Red Guards, here to take her to God knows where.

Her door eases open, a shadowy figure peering in. All Emma sees is a flash of a scarlet cloak, and she raises the vase.

“Get out!”

The figure turns in surprise, and recoils, hands over his face, when he sees the vase. “No don’t, throw it, it’s us!”

Emma pauses, and squints into the darkness as the figure moves closer. To her relief, it is not a Red Guard at all, but David Nolan, the scarlet cloak pulled up over his uniform. He steps into the room now, Lancelot behind him. He’s dressed as a Red Guard too, crimson cloak gleaming in the moonlight, but Emma thinks she’s never seen such friendly faces before.

“Interesting choice of clothing, gentlemen,” she says, setting the vase back down with shaking hands.

Lancelot looks down at himself, wrinkling his nose. “I much prefer blue.”

Another figure slips into the room, much smaller and slimmer, and to Emma’s surprise, it’s Aurora. She steps forward, sidestepping the broken vase, and wraps her maid up in a hug.

“What are you doing here?”

Aurora smiles bravely. “The Musketeers saved my life at the convent. The least I can do is try to help them save Sir Jones.” She holds out a bundle of clothing in her hands to Emma, and continues, “I’m going to be you for the next couple of hours.”

Emma wants to protest – it’s too dangerous to have anyone pretend to be her right now – but Aurora’s expression is firm, so Emma accepts the clothing. She changes into the looser dress, simple and dark grey, and Aurora herself changes into one of Emma’s nightgowns.

When Emma emerges from behind her changing screen, Aurora has dropped onto Emma’s bed, letting out a loud, satisfied sigh.

“Your bed is so soft,” she says, sinking back into the pillows, and Emma laughs at the blissful expression on her face.

David and Lancelot had stepped outside again while they hanged, and David re-enters, holding out a large brown cloak to Emma.

“Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here before anyone notices the unconscious Red Guards outside.”

She swings the cloak on, tucking in her skirts under the rough spun material and pulls the hood on, enough so it covers her face. On a spur of the moment thought, she bends down to run her fingers through the dirt on the floor from the broken vase, smearing it over her cheeks. Her face is pretty recognizable, but she hopes having dirt over it will help disguise her.

Lancelot is waiting by the doors, and David and Mary Margaret are speaking quietly. Emma looks away, swallowing down the rush of pain she feels at the sight.

(She never got to say goodbye to Killian like that).

David presses a kiss to Mary Margaret’s cheek and squeezes her hand before he steps away, smiling gently at Emma.

“Ready?”

Emma nods and she looks back to Mary Margaret, expecting to see her following, but she hasn’t moved at all.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’ll stay here and make sure Henry is okay.”

Emma steps back to hug Mary Margaret again. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Tell him I love him.”

Mary Margaret had packed a small bag for Emma while she slept, containing a change of clothes and other small necessities, and Emma takes it from her, pulling in her for one last hug.

“Be safe,” she whispers, and Mary Margaret nods.

“You as well.”

The urge to cry is strong then, Emma feeling overwhelmed at the risk all her friends’ are taking. She pulls away before she can let herself fall apart, heading out into the hall and stepping over the unconscious Red Guards with the Musketeers at her back.

Out there, her emotions quickly stifle; the corridors are quieter than Emma’s ever seen them, and goosebumps raise on her arms. She thought it was quiet in her room, but it’s nearly deafening here, the loud roar of silence hurting her ears. Even though it’s the middle of the night, Emma knows the servants are usually already awake at this hour, but there’s no one in sight.

She comments as much to Lancelot, who grimaces.

“Gold doesn’t trust anyone but his own guards. The servants have all be sent away until ... well ...”

Emma swallows hard, not wanting Lancelot to finish his sentence. “Right.”

David and Lancelot lead Emma towards the eastern wing of the Louvre, to the servants’ entrance. There are several Red Guards stationed at those doors, sitting there and playing cards, and Emma stiffens.

David lays lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Play along, okay?” he whispers.

She nods, and his grip tightens on her shoulder, pushing her ahead of him roughly, so suddenly Emma almost trips.

The guards drop their cards, and look around with narrowed eyes. “What’s this then?” one of them calls, rising.

“A servant who remained behind,” David says gruffly. “She was trying to see the queen.”

One of the seated guards snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don’t waste your breath on that bitch, sweetheart. She’ll be dead before you know it.”

Emma stiffens again, as do Lancelot and David at her side. The Red Guards don’t notice, and the guard who rose opens the servants’ door, gesturing them out. David pushes Emma towards it, and they’re almost outside, Emma tasting the free, fresh air, when the guard reaches out and grabs Lancelot’s arm.

“Wait a moment.”

He stares at Emma with narrowed eyes, and she hopes desperately her disguise has worked. She looks down to the ground, schooling her features into that of an ashamed maid, and hopes it fools him.

“What?” Lancelot says gruffly, and the guard frowns.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, still squinting at Emma. But then he shrugs, and releases Lancelot’s arm. “Nothing. Just make sure she’s off the premise. Cardinal doesn’t want anyone around.”

Lancelot nods, and then they’re out the door, it slamming shut behind them. It’s nearly impossible for them to not take off running and they force themselves to walk calmly away from the Louvre. The large palace looms ominously behind them as they slip into the dark Parisian night, into freedom, and Emma hopes that the next time she sees this place, it won’t be in such a dangerous situation.

<> 

The night is pitch black, the bright moon hidden by thick, rolling clouds. Torches light the bridge leading up to the towering walls of the Bastille as Robin and Will creep towards it through the dark, silent streets. Behind them, Regina brings up the rear, crouching down behind Will as they all pause at the base of the bridge.

No one wanted Regina on their rescue team, but they’d set up for the time being at _La Lune_ and Ruby didn’t want to be left alone with her. No one trusted her to not to run off back to Gold if she wasn’t watched either and there was no way she was going to go with Lancelot and David to the palace. So, here she is, with Robin and Will, on the way to try to break out Killian from the Bastille.

To say she is furious would be an understatement.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” she mutters, interrupting Robin and Will’s muttered conversation of their next steps. “Even I wouldn’t attempt to break into the Bastille.”

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for you!” Robin snaps.

Regina raises her eyebrows. “I think you’ll find we’re only in this situation of _rescuing_ your friend _because_ of me –”

Will lets out an exasperated sigh, and glares at the two of them. “Will you two stop it? We’re trying to save a man’s life here. You can argue later.”

Robin and Regina glare at each other in silence and allow Will to continue on with his quick mutterings of a plan.

From her stint working with the rogue Bastille guards – who, it turns out, were another of Gold’s plots to try to kill Emma – Regina has a good understanding of the layout of the prison, another reason she was brought along. The highest-level criminals are kept in the northeast tower, cloistered in interior cells without windows and a single barred door. The plan is to have Regina lead the way up, Robin and Will pretending to have been captured by her, spouting a story that she heard the Musketeers were wanted by the Cardinal and she’s brought them to justice. 

It’s a pretty flimsy plan at best, and Regina doesn’t hide her displeasure with it. She wants to just kill their way through the prison to find Killian, but both Robin and Will kyboshed that plan early on at _La Lune_. Not only would that make them as bad of criminals as Regina, these are just men doing their jobs and they don’t deserve to be slaughtered to save Killian.

So, with Regina rolling her eyes and muttering about how they’re all going to die, Will and Robin hold their hands behind their backs as if they’ve been tied up. They trudge up the drawbridge after Regina, heads bowed as if in shame but eyes alert and watchful.

There are two guards outside the doors to the prison, and they jump to attention as Regina leads them up the stone bridge.

“Halt!”

“Peace,” Regina says, putting both hands up in the air in surrender but not stopping. “I’ve brought two prisoners for you.”

The guards squint at her, clutching at their weapons tightly as they look from Regina to the two Musketeers with suspicious eyes.

“You what?”

Regina sighs, a twinge of annoyance in her tone. “They’re the Musketeers. The Cardinal wants them arrested.”

The guards exchange a look, and one of them smirks at Regina. “You expect me to believe a thing like you caught two Musketeers single-handedly?”

The other one snickers, but Regina just smiles.

“You must be new here.”

She darts forward, so fast Robin and Will have no time to react. Seemingly drawn from nowhere, she’s now holding a thin, rod-like cane in her hand, the end decorated with a steel apple, and she wields it like a club, swinging and slashing at the guards. They shriek as she makes contact, hitting them both hard across the face, sending them flying backwards.

The one nearest stumbles forward, furious, but Regina hits him again, driving the cane straight into his gut before twirling around and hitting him in the face once more. As he slumps to the ground, groaning, the second guard moves forward, but Regina deals with him in quick succession too.

When they’re both on the ground, unmoving and unconscious, it’s only been a matter of minutes. Robin and Will gape at the guards, but Regina just sniffs, wiping the edge of the cane on one of their uniforms, and steps over them.

“I don’t like it when people underestimate me.”

Robin snaps out of his daze first, and he glares at her. “We said no killing!”

“I didn’t kill them,” Regina argues. “They’ll be fine in the morning. Headache from hell, yes, but they’ll be fine.”

Robin mutters in disgust, but they don’t linger by the unconscious guards any longer. Will finds the key ring in one of the guard’s pockets, and then they’re inside the prison, the steel doors screeching on their hinges as they open.

Once the doors are shut again, an eerie silence falls over them, and their footfalls echo almost sinisterly as Regina leads them up to the top tower. The corridors are long and empty, lit by low torches that cast spooky shadows all along the stone walls, and makes the hair rise on the back of both Robin and Will’s necks.

They don’t run into any guards on their way up the numerous flights of stairs, which, looking back, should have been a red flag. But they’re all so anxious about getting to Killian and getting him out of there without any more trouble, none of the three even notice.

At the top of the northeastern tower, there is a single cell at the end of the corridor with a flickering candlelight in it. They all approach it, anticipation growing and triumph so near and –

The cell is empty.

They stare at the empty room, the single candle flickering and illuminating the emptiness. Will is about to step into the cell, as if to check the shadows for Killian, when there’s a cool chuckle from behind them, and they whirl around, weapons drawn.

Four large guards are standing there, all armed to their teeth with swords and clubs and pistols. The one at the front, a big brute with a nasty scar across his face, grins.

“Would you look at that? Seems you lot have come to the wrong prison.”

Robin points his sword right at the chest of the guard. “Where is Killian?”

The guard snorts, and swats away the sword as if it’s nothing but an errant fly. “Can’t you tell, mate? He’s not here. He’s at the Louvre.”

_The Louvre._

It had been all over Paris that the Red Guards had arrested a Musketeer accused of being an English spy, and he’d been taken to the Bastille to await his execution. None of the Musketeers had thought to double check that, because the Bastille is where traitors go after all, and its with a horrifying lurch to the gut that the three of them all realize at once –they’ve been tricked.

Robin almost expects Regina to turn and say _I told you so_ , but instead she sneers at the guards, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“So, you let us come all the way up here to discover he’s not even here? How lovely.”

The guard smirks at her. “The Cardinal wants you lot arrested too, milady, and it’s much easier for you to herd yourselves into cells than make us do it.”

Will spits at the man’s feet, and glares at him. “We saved your life a few months ago. What a way to repay us.”

The guard grins and draws his sword, the guards behind him mimicking it, and he points his sword at Will.

“Way of the world, mate.”

There’s a moment of quiet, the calm before the storm where everyone is sizing each other up. Then they burst into action, Will and the guard who had done the talking jump at each other, words clanging and banging as they collide. 

The hall is narrow, and in the course of the fight, Regina and Robin end up backed into the cell by the other three guards. Robin has his sword out in one hand, slashing at the guards, and Regina has her apple cane and a lethally curved dagger the length of her arm, fighting with both of them as easily as anything.

The guards soon realize that while Robin is a skilled fighter, thrashing at them with ferocity, Regina is the true threat here. Two of them focus on her, circling her like prey. But Regina is unfazed, swinging and slashing out at the guards as if they were nothing more than practice dummies, looking bored.

She knocks one of them back, swiping his legs out from under him with her cane, and he falls to the ground, winding himself and gaping like a fish out of water. The other one charges forward, making Regina twist out of the way, and she ends up with her back to the first guard, who has started to rise again. He’s furious, eyes flashing with anger as he stalks back towards Regina.

Robin, fighting his own guard, sees the man raising a club and realizes what he’s going to do, and a surge of panic rushes through him. Though he almost killed Regina a few weeks ago, suddenly confronted with the idea of seeing her die right in front of him sends a surge of terror through him and he acts without thinking.

He slams the guard he’s currently fencing with into the wall, hard enough to rattle his own teeth as the man slumps to the ground with a moan. Regina disarms her second attacker, sending him to the floor as well, and Robin charges at the guard sneaking up behind her, tackling him right around the waist. The momentum ends up knocking him, the guard, and Regina all to the ground, crumbled in a heap of tangled legs and arms.

Robin disentangles himself first, grabbing the guard’s leg and hauling him away from Regina. The guard, winded again, stares at him with wide eyes, pleading for mercy, but Robin’s running purely on fear and adrenaline now, and there’s no chance for mercy now.

“If anyone is going to kill her, it’s going to be me,” he says breathlessly, and he slams the hilt of his sword onto the man’s head, knocking him out instantly.

He turns around, breathing hard. The guard he hit into the wall is gone now, and his heartrate jumps another few levels – one of them has gotten away, and now they have even less time to get out of here than before.

Regina is still on the ground, trying to right herself, and Robin almost offers her a hand up, but steps back at the last moment. The rush of panic he felt at seeing her about to be killed has dissipated now, leaving behind an unsettling feeling that he doesn’t want anything to do with.

“Are you – are you okay?”

Regina doesn’t look at him as she rises to her feet, brushing off the dust on her skirt and straightening her jacket. “I’m fine.”

He stares at her, still breathing heavily, and Regina glances to him, and though her eyes remain guarded and cool, she says, “Thank you.”

He clears his throat, and crosses his arms, looking away.

“Yes, well. You’re welcome.”

Regina steps forward after a few seconds of uneasy silence, a hesitance to her step Robin hasn’t seen before.

“Robin, I know you can never forgive me, but I wanted to say –”

An ear-deafening bell reverberates through the room, making both Robin and Regina jump and clasp their hands over their ears, her sentence unfinished.

“That’s the alarm,” she shouts over the sound, clutching at her ears. “They know we’re here.”

Will leans his head into the cell, a nasty gash across his forehead dripping blood onto the rest of his face, and he looks them up and down.

“You done? Let’s go. We have to get out of here.”

Getting out of the Bastille is not as easy as getting in was. Guards are swarming out of their offices, and it’s a bloody fight that leaves all three of them injured and limping. They only survive because Regina knows the layout of the prison better than some of these guards, new since the Bastille attack a few months ago. They sneak through an old passageway used by guards to circumvent the prison quicker, and Regina leads them to a side door. It’s locked, but after a few good shoulder rams by Will and Robin, it cracks open, enough for them to slip out, and then they’re free, running into the main streets as fast as they can.

They don’t stop running for a long time, the gonging alarm following them through the streets, and when they finally do come to a stop, shadowed in an alleyway, the adrenaline passes and the absence of Killian with them hits them all at once.

They failed.

Robin throws his sword onto the ground, the dirt rising in a puffed cloud around it.

“Damn it. _Damn it_.”

“It’s not over,” Will protests stubbornly. “We’ll meet David and Lancelot at the Louvre. Get Killian out while they’re getting the queen. We can still do this.”

Robin leans against the wall, running a hand over his face in anger, breathing out hard. “It’ll be too late, Will. They’re long gone from the palace by now. The moment they know Queen Emma is gone, they’ll increase security around Killian.”

“No, we can still –”

“Let it go, Musketeer,” Regina snaps. “We failed. Jones is still in the Cardinal’s grasp.” She shakes her head, and casts an angry glare back the way they came, to where the prison bell is still ringing, faint now at this distance. “He played us, and we fell right into his trap and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

<> 

The day after the queen and the Musketeer’s arrest, Gold takes his time getting ready, savouring every moment of washing and dressing. The scarlet of his robes is somehow wrong this morning, as if he should already be wearing the pope’s white cassock, the French ring of state on his finger replaced with the Fisherman’s Ring instead.

Even the day is beautiful, a sure sign from God that he has acted in line with the Divine’s wishes. Everything is falling into place perfectly. The heretic queen arrested, the traitorous Musketeer jailed. By the time Neal returns, Gold will have all the evidence he needs against the queen and her lover, enough evidence to convince him the only way forward is a clean slate, both the traitors safely executed and buried so no further threats of scandal remain.

Breakfast is a humble affair, as always, but it tastes like a feast to Gold. He’s enjoying his meal, savouring each bite, when the door to the dining hall opens and his maid Belle enters, curtseying slightly.

“A messenger for you, from the palace. I told him you were having breakfast, but he was insistent.”

Gold narrows his eyes, not liking _from the palace_. He’d already been briefed that the Musketeers (and Regina, to his surprise) had attempted to break out Jones last night from the Bastille – the fools – but as far as he’s heard, nothing occurred at the Louvre.

“Send him in.”

Belle gestures to someone outside the door and a young man, about fifteen or so, enters the room. He’s absolutely terrified, and he splutters, “My apologies for interrupting you, Your Grace –”

“What is it?”

The boy hesitates, exchanging a fearful glance with Belle, and he gulps. “It’s – it’s the queen, Your Grace. She’s gone.”

He stares back at the boy, and fury, hot and boiling, flows through Gold’s veins. He gets to his feet, the chair falling down behind him, and both Belle and the messenger flinch.

“ _How_? How did she escape?”

The boy squeaks in fear as Gold stalks closer towards him, and he takes several steps backwards, nearly hitting the wall.

“It – the Red Guards outside her quarters were knocked out and ... two more were found without any of their clothes in another part of the palace. And ... when the guards went to see about the queen, one her ladies ... well, one of her ladies was pretending to be her, so no one noticed until this morning she was even gone –”

Gold snarls, and the boy backs right up into the wall now, the portraits rattling above him.

“And the Musketeer?”

“He’s – he’s still in the dungeon, Your Grace. They – they must not have known he was there –”

 _At least there’s that_.

“Bring me the lady in waiting, the one who pretended to be her. She’ll know where the queen is now. And then get me the executioner.”

Belle steps forward now, brow furrowing in confusion. “Your Grace, the execution for the Musketeer is not scheduled until Thursday –”

Gold laughs, dark and cold, and Belle falls silent.

“The queen may think she’s gotten away, but I know her weakness – _love_. So fetch the executioner, boy. I told her I’d hurt him if she attempted anything. I won’t kill her Musketeer yet ... but that doesn’t mean I can’t still hurt him.”

<> 

As morning turns to afternoon, Emma gets more and more anxious. She’s been sat inside the hot kitchen of _La Lune_ for hours now, the Musketeers sitting around her in equal uncertainty. Her arrival at the small pub was one initially of glee, but when the other rescue party returned empty handed and furious and injured, the mood quickly soured into one of despair.

No one knew what to do next. When Emma was discovered missing, they knew Killian’s security would be increased, making another rescue attempt nearly impossible.

To Emma’s dismay, they’ve decided to wait until the evening, when the king is scheduled to return. Everyone is hopeful he’ll put a stop to things, and as Killian’s date of execution isn’t until Thursday, they do still have some time.

But Emma can’t feel the same hope. She’s had a bad feeling since arriving at _La Lune_ , even before Robin, Will and Regina returned without Killian, and she hasn’t been able to shake it. Even if Neal returns tonight and Killian isn’t scheduled to die until Thursday, so many things can happen between then, so many things can go wrong.

Aurora’s simple grey gown is itchy and too tight in some areas, and Emma’s irritation with the entire situation has transformed into an annoyance with the dress. Halfway through the morning, she changes back into one of her own dresses Mary Margaret packed for her. It’s too conspicuous, and if they ever do have to venture out, she’ll have to put the grey dress back on, but for now, it’s a piece of comfort to wear the dark blue gown, embroidered and soft.

A sharp knock at the door on the pub makes them all jump nearly a foot in the air. The Musketeers reach for their weapons at their belt, and Ruby gets to her feet, holding out her hands calmly.

“It’s probably just someone wondering when we’re open again. This happens a lot.”

Tense silence falls as she leaves the room. Emma feels like she’s gone forever, her stomach twisting into knots, but it’s only a few moments before she returns, a wooden chest about the size of a jewellery box clutched in her hands.

Emma automatically hates the sight of it, and she’s not the only who one recoils as Ruby sets it down on the table.

“It was just on the steps. With this.” She drops a piece of parchment, folded and sealed with red wax, on the lid. “No seal, no name, and there was no one around that I could see.” 

Everyone stares uneasily at the box. Emma’s bad feeling worsens, a heavy dread settling like lead in her stomach. She wants to throw the box out of the tavern, right into the Seine so she’ll never have to see it again.

“It’s got to be from the cardinal,” Robin says into the silence.

“How could he know the queen is here?” David demands. “We came here in the middle of the night!”

“He has spies everywhere,” Regina replies, shooting David a withering glare. “It was naïve to think the queen would be safe anywhere from him.” 

“How he knows doesn’t matter,” Emma says before David can send a biting remark back to Regina. She gestures to the unmarked letter, clenching her jaw and swallowing down the bile that’s started to rise in her throat. “What does that say?”

Ruby, exchanging a nervous glance with Robin, picks up the letter and breaks the seal. She reads in silence, her eyes widening in horror and the parchment shaking in her grip.

“What? What is it?”

Ruby swallows, and with a quivering voice, reads: “‘Tell the queen to return to the palace or I’ll keep sending body parts.’”

Emma’s heart drops into her stomach, and she zeros in on the box. She’s on her feet before she realizes it, leaning over to lift the lid of the box, but David and Will move in unison to pull her back.

“No, don’t look,” David murmurs, shifting to push her further away from the table.

“Don’t tell me what–”

But Ruby’s sharp inhale cuts Emma off. She had opened the lid only partway before dropping it, stepping away with a hand over her mouth and eyes wide in horror.

“What is it?” Emma demands, trying in vain to get around David.

Ruby shakes her head, unable to speak, and Regina steps forward. She opens the lid again, and recoils just as Ruby had.

“What?” Emma repeats desperately. “What is it?”

Regina shakes her head, and locks eyes with Emma. When she speaks, her voice is flat, devoid of any emotion.

“It’s a hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder if you feel the need to yell at me on another platform too, I'm @swanslieutenant on Tumblr.
> 
> Art for this chapter by @acaptainswaneternity: http://acaptainswaneternity.tumblr.com/post/167808191593/if-the-stars-align-chapter-14-by


	15. Chapter XV

Regina’s words echo around the room as if they’re in a large cavern, reverberating through Emma and cutting her right down to her soul.

 “A – a _hand_? His –?”

“Well, you’re probably the one most familiar with it,” Regina says. Her face is pale now, and she shakes her head, swallowing deeply. “This is truly gruesome. Even for the cardinal.”

Emma stares at the chest, her heart beating frantically.

 _Gold cut off Killian’s hand_.

A flood of adrenaline explodes though her, and she rips free from David’s grip, marching towards the door and leaving the chest behind her on the table.  

“We need to get to the Louvre right away. Killian may not have a proper doctor, we have to get Dr. Whale, and –”

Robin slides in front of her, blocking her way to the door. “Wait, wait. We can’t do anything like that.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is what the Cardinal wants. He _wants_ you to return to the palace so he can re-arrest you. Regina said it herself – he wants you dead. He’s done this as a way to get you back –”

“ _Killian_ could already be dead!” Emma shouts, and Robin flinches back. “Gold cut off his hand! His hand, Robin! Think of the blood loss alone! We need to get him _now_ , we need to get him to a physician immediately! He could be _dead_!”

Emma’s words echo in the silence, ringing and loud, just as Regina’s had moments ago. The Musketeers are quiet, their expressions ranging from shock to horror to a cold, grim determination. Regina is staring at the opposite wall, expression unreadable, and Ruby is crying, silent tears running down her cheeks. Emma herself is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or terror she’s not sure.

She takes a deep breath, and stares intently at Robin, hands on her hips. “Get out of my way.”

Robin doesn’t move, exchanging a look with Lancelot behind her, shifting slightly to block the door even more. “Your Majesty, my job is to protect _you_. Killian knew the risks of getting involved with you and –”

“He didn’t let you kill Regina,” she snarls, and Robin recoils as if she slapped him; Regina in the corner goes ramrod straight. “And now you will let him die?”

“That – that is not –”

Emma shakes her head in disgust, and shoves him backwards, hard enough to make him stumble into the doorframe. “Get out of my way, Robin. You can either come with me and save your _friend_ , or you can stay here and cower in fear. Either way, I’m going back. I’m not letting Killian die because of me.”

For a tense moment, there’s a stand-off between them, both not budging an inch. Emma is already thinking of ways to get out of _La Lune_ if the Musketeers won’t let her go, whether it’s jumping through a window or sneaking out a back door, when Robin sighs and mutters a curse.

“Fine. Let’s go save Killian.”

<> 

Killian isn’t sure if he is alive or dead.

The past hours are a blur of pain, swirled and jumbled in his mind. He remembers lying on the uncomfortable cot in the Louvre jail cell, staring up at the brick ceiling and imagining the night sky instead. His jail door had burst open, guards grabbing him and dragging him to a room he wishes he could forget, strapping him to a flat table against his vicious protests.

A tall man, dressed entirely in black, had come in, a brutal, heavy sword in his hands and he grimaced. “Sorry about this, mate,” he’d said as the guards grab Killian’s shoulders, forcing him flat on the table. "But I’ve got my orders.”

After that, Killian doesn’t remember much.

Later, when he’s been returned to his cell, bloody and half-dead, there are images he’s not sure if he’s imagining or not. The face of the court physician looming over him, muttering about “waste of time, he’ll be dead tomorrow anyways” but working on him anyways. He remembers feeling someone pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, murmuring words he couldn’t understand. He thinks it may have been Mary Margaret, but he’s not sure since afterwards he could have sworn he saw Liam standing there in front of him.

His brother looked just as he did the day he died, tall and proud in his navy uniform, the medals of honour gleaming in the faint candlelight. He shook his head in dismay as he took in Killian, frowning as he had done many times when Killian misbehaved as a child.

 _Oh little brother, what have you done to yourself now_?

 _Liam_ , he’d tried to cry out, trying to focus on him with the spinning room greeting him as he strained to sit up. _Liam, is it really you?_

But Liam never answered, still shaking his head, stepping backwards and fading into the stone walls of the cell.

Killian reasons he must’ve passed out after that; whatever concoction of alcohol and herbs they’ve given him is powerful, and when he next comes to, he can’t tell if Mary Margaret and Dr. Whale and Liam were there minutes ago or hours. Whenever they were there, he’s alone now.

Or so he thinks.

 _Emma_?

She’s sitting on the edge of his cot, smiling at him, dressed in the same pink gown she’d worn at the convent weeks ago. He’s lucid enough to wonder if this Emma is real like Mary Margaret or a fever dream like Liam, but at the same time, he finds it doesn’t matter. This will probably be the last time he’ll ever get to see her, real or fantasy.

 _I’m sorry, Killian,_ she says, brushing away a tear from her cheek. _This is my fault._

 _No,_ he wants to say, but his throat won’t work. _It’s my fault. I was sworn to protect you from any harm, and that includes myself and my actions. If I had followed those vows ..._

Emma _shhs_ him, and shifts on the bed, scooting closer.

 _I won’t let them hurt you anymore,_ she whispers, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He swears he can feel her lips, feather soft and light, can smell her jasmine perfume, and he closes his eyes, wondering if she really is here.

The door to his cell swings wide open again, hitting the stone wall behind hard enough to jolt Killian to lucidity. He blinks and looks around, but Emma is nowhere in sight.

Instead, three looming figures of Red Guards fill the doorway, and Killian sits up automatically, hissing in pain as the movement jostles his arm and sending a wave of nausea over him.

“Come along, Jones,” one of the guards says, gesturing to the other two to step forward. “We shouldn’t keep the executioner waiting.”

He recoils from the guards, scooting as far back on the cot as he can. But he’s still so injured that he can barely move, not without piercing agony, and the guards take full advantage, hauling him to his feet and dragging him from the cell.

<> 

The Louvre is unnervingly quiet as Emma and the Musketeers stride up to it. Ruby has come along too, and she hurries after them, staring up at awe in the palace. Regina has left them to scout out the side of the palace with the jails to see if she can find out which cell Killian is in.

Servants are out in the courtyard this morning, attending to horses Emma recognizes as belonging to Neal. There’s a hushed quiet over the entire palace; it feels like someone’s died and the whole palace is in mourning.

Her skin pimples with goosebumps, but she pushes through the uneasiness, straight up to the main doors where Red Guards are sitting around and chatting.

They jerk to attention as Emma approaches them, jumping to their feet. Several scramble to open the main doors while others move up to meet Emma halfway, hands resting on the swords at their belts.

“Your Majesty. We are to escort you –”

“I am not going anywhere with you,” Emma snaps, ignoring their swords and pushing through them into the main foyer. The Musketeers follow, shoving the Red Guards to the side when they attempt to stop her.

“Get the king,” Emma orders when she’s inside.

The Red Guards don’t move. “The Cardinal wants to have a word with you, Your Majesty –”

She lets out a shrill laugh, and the guard who spoke falls silent. “Get the king. I know he’s back, I saw the horses outside.”

“Madame –”

“Am I not still the queen?” she yells, and the guards flinch. “Get Neal. _Now_.”

The Red Guards exchange a look, but one of them slinks to the side and disappears from the room. The Red Guards and the Musketeers glare at each other, looking ready to break into a fight at the drop of a pin.

Emma herself has felt nothing but purpose ever since they left _La Lune_ , adrenaline and fear charging her forward. Now, in the uneasy silence, she starts to shake, unable to stop wondering where Killian is, if he’s seen a doctor, how he’s doing – she refuses, flat out _refuses_ , to think he may already be gone.

After an eternity, the main hall doors open again and Neal and Cardinal Gold enter the room. Emma’s stomach turns at the sight of Gold, acid crawling up her throat, but she ignores him and rushes straight up to Neal.

“Before you arrest me, I need to talk to you –”

“All of you, out of here,” Neal interrupts, addressing the Musketeers and Red Guards alike and not even looking at Emma. “I want to speak to the queen alone.”

Neither Ruby, the Musketeers and Red Guards move, the Musketeers looking to Emma and the Red Guards to the Cardinal. Neal notices, of course, and he shakes his head darkly.

“You forget yourselves, soldiers. I’m the king, neither of them are. Now get out.”

There’s no arguing after that. The Musketeers and Red Guards file out of the room, looking like they’re going to beat each other up the moment the door shuts. Cardinal Gold makes a motion to move away too, but Neal holds out his hand, shaking his head.

“Not you, Cardinal. You can stay.”

Emma clenches her hands into her fists as Gold smiles reverently, slinking back to Neal’s side like a snake.

Neal finally looks over to Emma as the door shuts behind the soldiers. He crosses his arms over his chest, surveying her with a coldness to his eyes she’s never seen before. 

“You are not under arrest, Emma. I had the charges dismissed.”

Cardinal Gold’s neck cracks as he whips his head around, his eyes growing wide. “You – you did?”

“Of course. I couldn’t let Henry see his mother die.”

Emma’s heart clenches at the very thought, and she forces herself to smile at Neal. “Thank you –”

“Did you even think about what this would do to him?” he interrupts, voice like ice. “When I got back, Henry was inconsolable. Apparently, he’s been crying night and day since he heard you were arrested.”

Emma’s temper flares at the same time as a piece of her heart breaks off; her poor little boy. “I _wanted_ to see him, I wanted to explain, but the guards wouldn’t let me –”

Neal lets out a bark of laughter. “Explain what, Emma? How could you possibly explain this to him? That you _slept_ with one of the Musketeers? You’ve endangered his position by consorting with an Engl–”

“I _never_ wanted to hurt Henry, don’t you dare say that –”

“You didn’t think about Henry at all!” Neal roars, and Emma flinches away. “He thought you were to be executed for this! How could you do this to him? You of all people should know what it’s like for a child to grow up motherless!”

Emma can’t stop herself; she slaps him right across the face. The sound echoes tenfold in the large hall, and Emma’s breath comes in short, heavy bursts, her hand stinging with pain.

“That was low, Neal. Even for you.”

He presses his hand to his cheek, wincing at the already forming bruise, and glares at her. He turns to Cardinal Gold then, ignoring Emma once more.

“The queen was kept in her quarters for her own safety after the Musketeer’s treason was discovered. For her _safety_. Nothing more. I don’t want anyone to suggest anything otherwise; Henry’s reputation is all that matters to me. Is that understood, Cardinal?”

The cardinal bows, but his eyes flash with fury. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Neal nods, and starts walking away. Emma runs after him, grabbing his arm and forcing him to look at her.

“What about Killian? Where is he? He’s injured, he needs to see a doctor –”

“Ah, him,” Gold interrupts with a triumphant sneer, and Emma shoots him a hateful glance. “There’s nothing to be done for that traitor. He’s already on his way to the gallows.”

Emma’s heart drops into her stomach. “ _What_ – but he wasn’t to be executed until Thursday!”

“I wasn’t sure he would last until Thursday,” Gold says nastily, grinning. “And justice must be served.”

Emma’s throat is burning with acid, and she turns back to Neal, desperately. “You have to stop it! Send a messenger immediately!”

“Even if I wanted to, the messenger won’t get there on time.”

The floor sways dangerously under Emma’s feet, and she blinks back sudden, hot tears. “Neal, please. You have to stop it. He’s – he doesn’t deserve this.”

He shakes his head, and for the first time, there’s a glimmer of the old Neal she used to love, the one who believed in fairness and justice. He pries her hand off his arm, and steps away, putting distance between them.

“There’s nothing I can do, Emma. He’s English and he didn’t tell us.”

This – _this_ is what excuse he’ll use? That Killian’s what – an English spy? She doesn’t realize she’s spoken out loud until Neal nods.

“Yes.”

Emma shakes her head vehemently. “No, no, he’s not a spy. I knew he was English, he told me, and Captain Humbert knew too. You trusted him, you know he would never let a spy into the Musketeers –”

“And now Captain Humbert is dead, isn’t he?” Neal interrupts. “What do we really know about Jones? He didn’t tell us he was English and at Saint-Eustache, he stopped Locksley from killing that assassin, and she turned around and killed Humbert not a minute later. Perhaps he’s been in cahoots with them all along – trying to get you killed because you knew about him being English too. If you say only you and Humbert knew he was English ... well, the captain is dead and you’ve been targeted a handful of times.”

“That’s impossible. Killian is not a spy, he doesn’t want to _kill_ me –”

“Did you tell him about your swans?”

The question throws Emma, and she stares blankly at Neal. “I – yes, I did.”

“Before Gillert was killed?”

Emma realizes what Neal is insinuating, and fury floods through her. “Killian did not kill Monsieur Gillert!” She shakes her head, trying to control herself so she doesn’t snap and just slap him again. This requires words, and words have never been Emma’s strength.

She shoots another hateful glare to Gold, who smiles serenely back at her, and words be damned, she nearly marches over there and slaps him across the face.

She takes a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists, and forces her voice calm. “Gold has poisoned you, Neal. He wants me gone so he can be Pope, but since you won’t execute me, he’ll settle for this. Kill Killian to hurt me, to damage my reputation –”

Neal shakes his head, and turns away. “It doesn’t change anything, Emma. Jones is a traitor, and he has to die.”

“He saved me at the Bastille,” she says desperately. “He saved me on the road from the bandits, and again at the convent. Why would he do that if he was just trying to kill me? He would never try to hurt me. He _loves_ me.”

Neal freezes.

Emma straightens her back, and stares at him. Saying that last part was probably a mistake, but she won’t take it back. Neal regards her seriously for a few minutes, and then shakes his head.

“Jones is to be hanged in an hour at _Place de la Bourse._ I won’t stop it, but if you can get the Musketeers there before he’s dead ...”

A crush of relief floods over Emma – _a chance, they have a chance_ – and she runs from the room. Gold’s expression as Emma passes him is dark as night, and he leaves the room too, red robe flashing around the corner.

Outside, the Musketeers and Ruby have been joined by Regina. They’re all clustered in a circle talking, and Regina steps forward as Emma bursts out of the room.

“I couldn’t find him –”

Emma doesn’t pause, running right by them and back out to the courtyard, towards the horses.

“Where are you going? Did they move Killian?” Robin demands, following her outside, the others hot on his trail.

“Yes,” Emma says, skidding to a stop next to one of the horses, hauling herself up and onto it. When she’s up, she glances down to Robin, and almost chokes on the next words: “To _Place de la Bourse._ They’re going to hang him in an hour. We have to save him.”

<> 

In the large square, a crowd has gathered, eager to see the day’s criminals hanged. Emma’s never been to an execution herself before, horrified by the thought of watching someone die for entertainment, but even she can tell the crowd is larger than normal, the streets leading up to the area clogged full of people.

She can hear murmurs of _English traitor_ , _a Musketeer_ , and _the queen’s lover_ floating through the crowd, getting louder and louder as she gets closer to the gallows. The Musketeers are shoving people out of the way ahead of her, screaming “Musketeers, move!” and parting people like the Red Sea. Emma pushes people aside herself, and they finally round a corner, the looming gallows coming into view.

There are four people on the scaffold, a masked executioner in black, two Red Guards in their crimson uniforms, and between them, down on his knees, is Killian.

He looks half-unconscious, leaning forward and only kept upright by the guards holding his arms. Even from this distance, Emma can see bloody bandages wrapped at the base of his arm where his left hand should be, and another swoop of horror floods through her. 

“Stop!” she screams at the top of her lungs. “Stop the execution!”

But the executioner doesn’t hear her over the roar of the crowd. He’s speaking with the guards holding Killian, showing them how to lay him on the block, and Emma’s stomach drops.

“No!” she screams again, shoving more people out of her way and running towards the gallows. “Stop!”

This time, the executioner hears her and he looks up in surprise. Across the courtyard, seated in a raised wooden viewing box, is Cardinal Gold, and he rises in anger as Emma and the Musketeers charge through the crowd.

“That woman has no authority here! Continue on!”

But the executioner hesitates, lowering the sword and glancing down to Killian, hanging limp from the guards’ arms. He looks over to Emma, and she’s suddenly incredibly thankful she changed into one of her own dresses, the richness of it speaking volumes and declaring her to be the queen.

His eyes widen as he recognizes her, and he drops his sword to the scaffold, taking a step backwards, away from Killian.

A surge of relief floods over her, but it’s short-lived, Gold screaming from his box shattering it like a rock thrown at glass.

“Get them!”

The Red Guards surrounding the gallows draw their swords, the Musketeers and Regina do the same. They’re upon each other instantly, slashing and crashing and shoving. The assembled crowd, here to see an execution not be killed themselves in a vicious swordfight, starts to scream, fleeing and shoving to get away.

The crush of the crowd is against her now, and Emma has to force her way through them, ducking and dodging the swords and pistol fire as she goes. She’s vaguely aware of Ruby following her, but all she can focus on is Killian up there on the gallows.

She reaches it, clambering up the stairs, but the pair of Red Guards who had been holding Killian up block her way.

“Sorry, Majesty,” one of them says, pointing his sword at her. “But we can’t let you interfere.”

Emma pauses, her hand moving to her hip. David gave both her and Ruby swords on their way to the _Place de la Bourse_ ; Ruby grew up on the Parisian streets a block away from the barracks and has known how to fight her whole life. Emma’s only had a few lessons, but with the way her adrenaline is soaring now, she feels like she’s the one who has a lifetime of experience.

The guards are already lowering their swords, smirks of satisfaction written across their faces at Emma’s hesitation, and that fuels Emma’s fire.

In a quick motion, she draws her sword and charges forward at the guards. They both step back in surprise, only one of them quick enough to block her sword, the metal screeching as the swords drag against each other. Ruby climbs the steps behind her too, and she kicks the other guard in the shins, sending him howling backwards, hobbling and clutching at his leg.

The guard who blocked Emma’s sword pushes back at her, and Emma almost stumbles off balance. He advances, powerful and angry, slashing out at her with enormous power.

Emma ducks, the whistle of the sword rustling her hair, but rises again. The guard is still contorted from the momentum of the swing, and Emma drives her shoulder into his sword arm, sending them both careening towards the centre of the gallows.

The guard shouts in pain, and hot agony shoots through her shoulder – the one she injured at the convent – but she doesn’t let up. Over his shoulder, Emma can see Killian lying there, unmoving, and she attacks the guard with more ferocity than before.

But even with her renewed viciousness, it quickly becomes apparent Emma’s not a match for the guard, not with only a couple of lessons under her belt. He senses it too, pushing forward with even more power, and with one vicious slash to her sword, Emma loses her grip on it. It clatters away and slips right off the edge of the gallows.

The guard grins, and darts forward again. Without a weapon, Emma panics, and does the only thing she can think of – she drops to the ground.

It takes the guard aback, but only for a moment. He stabs his sword downwards, and Emma rolls away, the old wood sending splinters into her back and legs as she goes. Luckily, the sword gets stuck in the scaffold, and the guard stumbles as his momentum stops abruptly.

He turns to tug at the sword, and Emma catches sight of the pistol at his belt. An idea blooms in her mind – she may not have her sword anymore but ...

She scrambles to her feet and charges at the guard, elbowing him hard in the face. Her other hand grabs for his pistol, unhooking it from his belt, and she backs away, lifting the pistol.  

Everything else around her fades into the background as she aims the pistol at the guard. She remembers Killian teaching her in the shadow of the Convent of St. Meissa, teaching her how the gun works and how to hold her muscles so she fires accurately. She slips into that stance as if were a dance position, and winks one eyes shut.

The guard puts out one hand in front of him, his mouth forming the word _please_ but all Emma can see is Killian behind him, slumped over and unmoving. Mercy doesn’t even cross her mind, and she pulls the trigger.

The kickback to this shot is worse than the day in the glade, pushing back on the shoulder she injured at the convent hard enough to make her cry out in pain. The sound seems louder too, echoing through the town square and reverberating in Emma’s head like a gong. But the worse sound is the guard’s scream as the bullet hits him in the chest, knocking him onto his back with its force, blood exploding from his chest. The smoke from the pistol floats around the man like Death’s breath, and there’s a horrible gurgling sound, rasping and wheezing, louder than even the shot itself.

Emma can’t find it in herself to feel any remorse.

She glances over to Ruby, who is gaining the upper hand with her own guard, and Emma doesn’t waste another moment. She runs towards the centre of the gallows, dropping to her knees next to Killian.

He’s curled in on himself, groaning and holding his left arm close. The end of it is wrapped in soaked, bloody bandages, and Emma has to swallow down her horror and outrage at what has been done to him. She grips his collar, twisting him so she can see him more properly. He’s pale as death, his forehead dibbled with sweat, and he groans in pain as she moves him.

Her heart is beating a thousand beats a minute, and she leans over him, pressing kisses onto his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. He doesn’t even react, and Emma tugs hard at his collar. “Come on, Killian. Come back to me.”

He mumbles something incoherent, shifting to try to pull away from her to curl back into himself, but Emma holds tight. Down below, the hum of the battle is returning to her, people screaming and pistols firing, and Emma knows they need to get him out of here as quickly as possible.

“Killian, I know you’re hurt, but we need to get you out of here. Can you stand up?”

It’s a stupid question, especially as Killian groans again, still trying to pull away from her so he can cradle his arm against his chest. Emma yanks hard at his collar again, and his eyes pop open, swirling about wildly before they finally focus on her.

“Killian,” she gasps, so relieved to see the blue of his eyes she nearly starts crying in relief. “You’re going to be okay, I’m so sorry –”

“Emma?” he manages, his voice hoarse and cracked, and he narrows his eyes at her, as if trying to see if it’s really her. He lifts his right arm with a tremendous amount of strength, reaching out for her, and Emma grabs his hand with hers. “Are you really here?”

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” she replies, crying now for real, shifting now to press a kiss against his hand. “I’m so sorry, Killian. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

He stares at her, eyes moving rapidly over her face. She thinks he’s going to say something, mouth opening again, but his eyes roll into the back of his head, his hand going limp in hers, and he slips back into unconsciousness.

Emma sobs, and shakes at his collar again, but Killian doesn’t rouse. She turns around, still holding onto him, and scans the crowd, desperate for help. The sound of the battle is loud, hurting her ears with its intensity, but it’s as if she can hear a clock ticking in her mind, ticking away the minutes of Killian’s life every moment they stay here without a doctor. 

_Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock._

Down below on the courtyard, the Musketeers are gaining the upper hand now, Red Guards littering the ground or running away from the scuffles. The closest Musketeer to her is Robin, fighting two Red Guards at once, bleeding badly from a cut to his shoulder.

“Robin!” she screams, and he turns around, ducking a blow to the head as he goes. “He needs a doctor!”

Robin nods, and turns back to finish off the guards. Ruby hears her too, and she delivers one more swift kick to her guard’s stomach, sending him careening off the scaffold, before she’s at Emma’s side, dropping to her knees next to Killian, her eyes widening and face paling.

“Killian, oh my God –”

“He’s alive,” Emma interrupts, “but we need to get him to a doctor. Can you help me get him up?”

They shift to each grab him under one arm. But he’s literal dead weight, so heavy they are hardly able to lift his torso off the scaffold. His injured arm drags on the wood, and Emma shakes her head vehemently, terrified of injuring him anymore.

“Put him down, put him down.”

She leans back then, breathing heavily. She scans the crowd for Robin again, but he’s nowhere in sight.

 _Tick tock_.

“Ruby, you need to go back to the Louvre. Find Dr. Whale and bring him to the barracks. Okay?”

With one last look to Killian, she nods and runs down the stairs, slipping into the crowd. Emma looks back to Killian. He’s paling now, eyes closed peacefully, and she shakes him again, but still nothing. She shifts to slide under him, resting his head in her lap, and leans over, pressing another kiss to his lips. Like before, he doesn’t react at all, his mouth cool and unmoving under hers.

 _Tick tock_.

When she lifts her head, ready to jump from the gallows herself and grab the closest Musketeer she can find, to her immense relief David and Lancelot are climbing up the stairs to the gallows, both paling at the sight of Killian, unconscious in her lap.

“He’s alive,” Emma says as they bend down beside Killian, Lancelot pressing a finger to Killian’s throat to check for a pulse. “But he needs a doctor right away.”

“We’ve got him,” David says, resting a reassuring hand on Emma’s shoulder before shifting to grip Killian’s arms. “You can let go.”

But Emma wouldn’t let go if the world was ending. She moves out of the way for the Musketeers, but she grabs his hand again as they lift him up, carrying him between them like a sack of potatoes. 

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers to him, hoping he can hear her. “It’ll be okay, Killian.”

A shout from below distracts her then, loud and booming over all the scuffle below, and she looks way from Killian.

“Retreat! Retreat, men, retreat!”

The Red Guards step back from whatever attack they’re in, sending the Musketeers off balance. They turn and run, shoving the remaining lingering crowd out of their way, and the Musketeers take off after them.

Emma looks over to the last place she saw Gold, but the box is empty – he’s gone.

Emma shakes her head, swallowing down her rage that he’s gotten away, and looks back to Killian, hanging between David and Lancelot’s arms. He’s still totally unconscious, his face paled now to an icy white, and Emma has to bite back a sob.

_Tick tock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by @captainswanandclintasha; http://captainswanandclintasha.tumblr.com/post/168049214868/if-the-stars-align-chapter-15-by
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter XVI

For a week straight, Killian drifts in and out of unconsciousness.

Though they first brought him to the barracks, Dr. Whale waiting for them when they arrived, he’d been moved back to the Louvre. Dr. Whale determined the barracks weren’t a clean enough environment to care for Killian’s injuries, and as well, he wanted him under constant supervision and he didn’t want to be running back and forth between the palace and the barracks.

The first night was the scariest, and Emma thinks those memories will be burned into her mind for the rest of her life. Dr. Whale had treated Killian’s arm already, but the trauma of being dragged down to the gallows and carried back between the barracks and the palace had re-opened the wound. He had lost so much blood and was showing the early signs of an infection that Dr. Whale had tried to prepare them all for the worst.

Emma staunchly refused to accept that. After all they’d been through, after saving Killian when he was only moments away from the executioner’s block, she was not going to accept that he could die now. 

The only mercy to the situation is that it was a clean cut to his arm. Dr. Whale does what he can that first night to stop the bleeding and to cauterize the wound; that pain had been enough to rouse Killian from unconsciousness, and his screams make shivers run down Emma’s arms even thinking about it.

As the week drags on, Killian hovering between life and death, Emma wants nothing more than to sit at his side all day and night, but she can’t. Neal’s words about Henry from earlier are clanging around her head – _he thought you were to be executed for this_ – and she’s torn in two directions, between the dying Killian and her terrified son.

The first night Emma returned to the palace, he’d been in his room, crying and refusing to see anyone but her. He’d cried even harder when Emma came in, throwing his story book to the side and hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe. And if her son was clingy after the attack at the convent, it’s nothing to how he is now. He flat out refuses to be away from Emma, stuck to her side constantly, and it’s only when he’s asleep that Emma manages to get away and down to the infirmary to see Killian.

A week after the near execution, when she arrives to the infirmary one night after tucking a tearful Henry into bed and promising to come see him first thing in the morning, she’s not surprised to find Aurora beside Killian’s bed.

It turns out Aurora was the one who told Gold that Emma and the Musketeers had been hiding out at _La Lune_ after the Red Guards found her in Emma’s room. The Red Guards had hit her several times, leaving purple bruises on her cheeks and arms that still haven’t healed, and Gold himself had threatened her. They’d thrown her in the Louvre dungeon and threatened to kill her, but it wasn’t until Gold threatened to kill her widowed aunts, knowing their names and the exact location of their cottage, that the story had come out.

Emma doesn’t blame her, not at all – she knows just what Gold is capable of – and besides, by the time Aurora talked, Emma was sure Killian’s fate was already sealed. But Aurora feels like what has happened to Killian is her fault, and the servants have resorted to just bringing food and water to Killian’s room for her instead of fighting with her about leaving for a meal.

Aurora rises when Emma enters the room, a lightness to her shoulders Emma hasn’t seen all week, and she smiles widely.

“I think his fever is breaking.”

She looks sharply over to him. He’s asleep on his back, left arm elevated on several pillows. Just this morning there had been an unnatural high colour to his cheeks for days, but now his colouring looks much better.

She sinks down into the chair beside his bed, and presses her hand to his forehead. True enough, his forehead is cooler than it was this morning, and relief floods through her.

Perhaps they will make it out of this storm.

“Dr. Whale was in here earlier,” Aurora says. “He said if Killian continues to improve, he can be moved to the barracks in the next few days.”

Emma smiles, though inside her heart twinges. She’s extremely happy to hear he’s improving, but if he’s at the barracks, it will be harder to come and visit him. It’s selfish, of course, but having him so close by has been a blessing.

Aurora gives her some more updates on his condition – the wound is clean and healing and she successfully managed to make him drink some soup earlier – and then leaves Emma alone with him. It’s almost too quiet in that little room when the door shuts behind Aurora, with only Killian’s even breath as company.

For a while, she sits in the silence, watching his chest rise and fall with his breath. Aurora had been dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth, and Emma resumes the task, pressing it over his forehead and chest. She gets up to re-wet it in the basin across the room, thoughts somewhere else, when a hoarse voice from behind her speaks.

“Emma?”

She drops the cloth in shock, splashing herself with cold water. She’s back to his bedside in a moment, dropping into the chair and gripping his hand with her own. 

“I’m here, Killian, I’m here.”

But his eyes remain closed. He mumbles her name a few more times, and Emma realizes with a lurch that’s he’s not awake. But for a moment, his fingers tighten around her own, and she wonders if there’s a part of him that realizes she is there. But he doesn’t wake up, his grip loosening against her own, and he’s gone again, his breathing back to even and steady.

Her heart sinks, and she blinks back tears. “I’m here,” she whispers again, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his cool forehead. “I’m here.”

<> 

The next day, though Killian is still mostly incoherent and keeps alternating in calling out for Emma and muttering about wanting to see someone named Liam, Dr. Whale approves him to be moved down to the barracks.

Emma is against it, not only for her one selfish reasons, but because she’s terrified of moving him when he’s still so injured. The Musketeers are extremely careful, moving him as if he was made of glass and could break at any moment, and thankfully, he makes it to the barracks in one piece.

With him there, Emma doesn’t get the chance to see him for a few days. She’s unable to escape from the palace, not with Henry wanting her every waking hour and the guards refusing to let her out at night. She thinks about escaping again, but the guards are wise to her now, and keep the palace locked down.

Three days later, when Henry falls asleep just after dinner after a particularly long day of horseback riding lessons, with the sun still in the sky, she and Mary Margaret leave the Louvre for the barracks, Emma ordering the guards away when they try to stop them.

David came to the palace to meet them, but the walk back to the barracks is silent. When they get to the barracks, the other Musketeers are seated in the courtyard, talking quietly amongst themselves and watching the recruits practice. They bow to Emma as she arrives, and Mary Margaret remains down there, while David brings her upstairs, to the room they’ve put Killian in.

He looks a million times better than he had at the Louvre, and a heavy weight she’d been carrying around on her shoulders, one she didn’t even know she was carrying, lifts.

But there’s a bittersweet edge to it too. Before she left from the Louvre, running back to her quarters after kissing Henry goodnight, Neal had stopped her in the hall and told her what Killian’s fate would be after he was recovered; Emma almost starts crying thinking about it now.

She swallows down her rising emotion, and turns to David. “Can you give me a minute please?”

David shuts the door quietly behind him, and Emma sinks down beside Killian. Unlike the Louvre, with its quiet infirmary, this place is crowded with noise. Down below, Emma can hear horses neighing and the clang of swords from the recruits, and she smiles as she runs her hand over his. This is Killian’s world, the world of a soldier, a Musketeer ... the thought almost makes Emma start crying again, Neal’s decision for his fate ringing louder than all the ruckus below.

She’s hardly been sitting there for five minutes before the door opens again. She turns, expecting to see Mary Margaret or one of the Musketeers, but to her utter shock, it’s Regina.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Regina tenses at Emma’s hostile tone, and she steps into the room, followed closely by a scowling Robin. Emma exchanges a look with him, and Robin shakes his head.

“If you don’t want her here ...”

Regina shoots him a cold look, and takes another step into the room. “I just want to see how he is doing.”

Her eyes flicker to the end of Killian’s arm, still heavily bandaged, and Emma swears she sees a glimmer of remorse in those dark eyes. So, though she can already feel her blood starting to boil at Regina’s presence, she nods once at Robin. He doesn’t leave the room like she expected, stepping in after Regina and shutting the door behind him.

Emma looks back down to Killian, and presses her hand against his forehead. It’s the coolest she can remember, and she smiles. “He’s getting better.”

Regina nods, still looking uncomfortable. She doesn’t say anything, and they fall into an uneasy silence, Emma not sure what else to say to her. It’s apparent Regina has come here to say something, but Emma herself has very little to say to the woman who killed Monsieur Gillert and Captain Humbert, and is a part of the reason Killian is lying here, injured and sick. 

“He didn’t deserve this,” Emma whispers, staring sadly at him, thinking of the others she killed too. “None of them did.”

Regina’s face remains expressionless, but she does nod once, short and curt.

“No, they didn’t.”

Emma tilts her head to survey Regina further. Her shoulders are stiff, and now she’s not even looking at Killian, instead staring at the opposite wall, her discomfort clear. All the anger and grief and despair and every emotion in between she’s felt in the past week suddenly rises up, rearing its head like an ugly snake, and she snaps.

“What did I ever do to you, Regina?” Her voice is loud enough to make Regina flinch, and she turns back to Emma, mouth dropping open slightly. “What did he do? What did Monsieur Gillert, or Captain Humbert or anyone else you’ve killed do to you?” 

“Nothing. I – it wasn’t my idea –”

“Oh, I know that,” she snaps. “Cardinal Gold wanted to become Pope, right? And I stood in his way, so you just willingly agreed to kill anyone he asked you to? What did you get out of this? What on earth did he promise you?”

Regina opens her mouth, fury flashing in her eyes, but Emma doesn’t pause to let her answer, the emotions that have been stewing in her taking over and exploding out with no filter.

“It sounds like you just work for the biggest, baddest person around, doing whatever they ask, giving no thought to whoever you hurt, as long as you get what you want in the end, whatever the hell that is –”

Regina’s face flushes. “Well, I’m not like you, born into privilege and wealth, I’ve had to fight my whole life –”

“You don’t know me at all! I’ve had to fight my whole life too, and I didn’t turn to murdering people I’d never met for no reason to survive!”

She takes a deep breath, and unclenches her hands from fists, fists she didn’t even realize forming. She looks away from Regina, taking several more deep breaths to calm herself down, and focuses on Killian again, dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth, trying to focus on _him_ and not the monster standing feet from his bed.

But that’s easier said than done. With Regina’s presence in the room, souring the very air in the room, Emma can barely focus on wringing out the cloth, let alone pressing it to Killian’s forehead. In fact, she’s just about to tell Robin to get her the hell out of here, when Regina speaks again.

“It was a house.”

Emma pauses, her hand hovering over Killian’s forehead.

“A house?”

Regina swallows deeply before explaining, “I’ve been on the run for years, staying away from Paris and France, and the... the money I was going to get would be enough to buy a home. All I ever wanted was a place where I was the one in charge of everything, a place where _I_ could be the queen of my own palace. I had that once before, before I left France, and I wanted it again.”

Robin stiffens against the doorframe, but Emma doesn’t care about whatever drama they’ve got going on between them. Monsieur Gillert and Captain Humbert, turning to dust already, Killian lying here, as close to death as anything, because of a _house_.

Emma swallows down the bile, and forces herself to take several more deep breaths, knowing if she doesn’t, she’ll probably end up punching Regina right in the face, which, on second thought, isn’t such a bad idea.

But instead, she steels herself. She’s been thinking of a plan on how to deal with Gold for days, and since her conversation with Neal, it’s only become more entrenched in her mind. Killian will suffer for the rest of his days because of that monster, and Emma’s not going to let Gold’s crimes go unpunished.

“Well, luckily for you, Regina, you’ve got yourself a new employer. I have a job for you, and if you do it, I’ll make sure you get your precious _house_ , but it won’t be anywhere in France.”

Regina’s expression sours, and that makes Emma almost angrier – what right does _Regina_ have to be upset at this? They’ve all lost something because of her, but she gets pouty at the idea of having to leave France?

To drive her point home, Emma adds, “That’s the offer, Regina, take it or leave it. If you stay here, I’ll personally make sure you never live to see another sunrise.”

Regina glares angrily at her and doesn’t say anything. Emma thinks she might refuse, but Robin shifts to put his hand on his sword, and with a dark glare to him too, she nods, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Fine. What’s the job?”

“I want you to kill Gold. And I want it done by dawn.”

<> 

Killian has no sense of time passing. He could have been lying here for hours, drifting in and out of reality, or it could have been days or weeks.

He’s not sure if he’s alive or dead anymore either. At first he thought he was dead, that this uncertain, never-ending cycle of pain and unconsciousness is the afterlife. But other times he thinks he must still be alive, for the pain he feels couldn’t be something conjured up in death ... unless he really is dead, and this is hell.

When he’s feeling the most lucid, sometimes his vision is clear enough to see Aurora or Mary Margaret pressing a cloth to his forehead and whispering words of comfort. Once he could have sworn it was Emma, but he’s starting to not be able to tell reality from hallucination.

One day, Killian wakes from sleep and somehow, something is different. Like he’s made it through a storm that ravaged for days on end, and now the sun is shining on the other side, bright and warm and as welcoming as an embrace.

He squints at the window, trying to discern what time it is. There’s someone in his way, blocking half the light and silhouetting themselves so he can’t see their features. There’s a crown of blonde hair, lit like a halo with the pale light shining behind, the slender form of their body, and he realizes it’s Emma.

For a moment, he wonders if it’s just another hallucination, like he saw in his cell and up on the gallows and in the many dreams he’s had since, or if this is somehow really her. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was another fantasy, but this time ... this time he doesn’t feel like it’s a hallucination.

“Emma?”

She turns from the window, her eyes widening and jaw dropping open.

“Killian?”

She crosses the room as he struggles to sit up, pushing himself up with his good arm and leaning heavily back against the pillows. He clears his throat several times, voice hoarse from misuse.

“What – what are you doing here?”

She smiles as if that’s a silly question, sinks down onto the bed beside him. The movement jostles his arm and he can’t help the hiss of pain that escapes. Instantly, Emma jumps to her feet again.

“I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“It’s okay,” he whispers through gritted teeth as the pain subsides, gathering enough strength to adjust himself so his arm is more elevated on the pillows and not so easily jostled. “You can sit down.”

She does again, sitting more slowly, and for a moment, they don’t say anything. Killian isn’t sure he’s not dreaming, and Emma looks like she just can’t believe he’s even wake. She scoots forward an inch, resting her hand on his leg through the blankets.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” he replies, voice somehow hoarser than before. He clears his throat again, and adds, “Well, actually, like I’ve been to hell and back. How – how long have I been ... asleep?”

“You were in the Louvre for a week and here for a few days,” Emma replies, and Killian’s mouth drops open.

“A week?”

Emma’s eyes start to water. “Dr. Whale wanted you under his constant supervision, and he didn’t want to be running back and forth. There were some scary days there ... but you’ve been doing a lot better the past few days, so we moved you here.” She pauses, and wipes at her eyes. “Your hand, Killian. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.” 

He shakes his head, something he regrets as the room starts swimming around him. “No, no. It’s not your fault. It’s Gold’s.”

That brings the flood of memories back, hot and furious, and Killian sits up, away from the pillows. His hand curls into a fist at his side, clenching his teeth at the pain the movement causes in his other arm.

“Gold. Where is he?”

Emma rests her hand on Killian’s, interlacing her fingers with his to force his hand to relax, and smiles gently.

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore, Killian. I told Regina to take care of him.”

He blinks at her, and sinks back onto his pillows; he knows what that means.

“That’s too good for him.”

Emma shifts closer on the bed, twisting his hand so she can hold it properly. “Killian ... I have to tell you something. Neal knows the truth.”

“The – he does?”

She nods, and Killian sits up in bed again. “We can lie. Say it was just me and you wanted no part in it –”

She frowns, and shakes her head. “No, Killian. He’s ... fine with it. He just wants it kept quiet; Henry’s position is too important to him to jeopardize by a scandal.”

“He – _really_?”

For a brief, wild and crazy moment, Killian almost believes that this nightmare will be finally over, that he won’t be the cause of Emma’s downfall or death. But then Emma’s eyes start to well with tears again, and he knows it was too good to be true.

“But there’s ... there’s a condition. You – you have to leave France.”

Killian blinks at her, unsure he’s heard her correctly.

“I – what?”

She wipes angrily at her eyes, the next words coming out in a rush. “Neal doesn’t want you here anymore, not where rumours could still take hold if any of the Cardinal’s associates decide to talk. He’s squashed it all for now, but if you stay ... he won’t allow it. And you’re – you’ve technically been charged as a traitor, but because of what Gold did to you, Neal commuted your sentence. You’re not going to be executed, but you’ll have to leave France.”

He stares at her, and leans back into the pillows as the news settles upon him. Leaving France, with her old cobbled roads and dirt paths, her green valleys and succulent vineyards, her dazzling courts and the rustic old barracks, leaving the Musketeers, his family even though they share no blood will be nearly impossible.

Leaving Emma, however, is unthinkable.

Emma wipes at her eyes again, forcefully brushing away the few tears that have leaked out as if she could banish them from France instead.

“Once ...  once you are well enough to travel, you’ll have to go. My guardian, Queen Ingrid in Denmark, will take you in. I’ll write to her. You won’t want for anything, I’ll make sure of it. You’ll have a good life there.”

His mind is still swirling with the idea of having to leave France, his whole world fracturing in front of him, and he wonders again if he misheard her.

“Denmark? Not – not to England?”  

Emma lets out a small chuckle, shaking her head. “England won’t take you,” she admits. “Neal asked their ambassador, but they know you left the Navy in ... less than honorable circumstances. They want you, but not to offer you sanctuary.”

Killian nods, swallowing deeply. Denmark – it could be heaven on earth, paradise incarnate, and he still wouldn’t want to go there, not without Emma.

“This is all my fault,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the words. “You lost your hand, you almost died, and now you have to leave France. I should have taken Gold’s threat more seriously when we were at Captain Humbert’s funeral, I should have known –”

“Emma, no. Listen. It is not your fault.”

“It is, I won’t –”

“Emma, please. Don’t blame yourself. I don’t – I don’t care what happened to me. It’s my own fault. I should have told the king about my past as an English sailor. If I had ... Gold couldn’t have used it against me or you.” He lifts her hand, and presses a kiss against it, letting his lips linger. “I’m just thankful _you_ are okay.”

She frowns, and he releases her hand to wipe the remaining tears away. He glances back to the window; night has fallen now, the moon bright and streaming into the room. Stars pinprick the sky, bright like jewels, and he smiles.

“It’s a clear night,” he says, tilting his head at the window and he shifts over a bit, creating more room on the narrow bed and patting beside his hip. “Tomorrow – tomorrow, we can talk more about this, aye? For now ... for now let’s just look at the stars.”

<> 

As his carriage rumbles through the streets, away from the Louvre and to his home, the _Hôtel de Sens_ , Cardinal Gold is completely ensconced in his thoughts.

He spent the evening at the Louvre, hoping to catch the king when he finished a meeting, but Neal, like he has for the past week, refused to see him. Gold has only seen the king once since the botched execution of the Musketeer, a meeting where Neal yelled at him for a good twenty minutes about how Gold’s desperate search for power had nearly ruined all of France.

So, fine. With yet another dismal just hours ago, Gold decides to leave it alone. Let the king try to run the country without him, then. He’ll come crawling back within a week, desperate for the power Gold wielded that made Neal’s life so easy.

For now, he’ll return to his home, have a drink of brandy, and curse the name of the queen.

Every thought of her makes his blood boil. All his hard work, for nothing. She’s untouchable now, both physically and politically. His allies in the Spanish court slunk away like snakes in a garden after the news of the failed execution of the English Musketeer and the pronouncement that the accusations against the Queen were all false.

Gold played his hand, and lost. Now, he has nothing but his remaining power in France, but that too is becoming as slippery as water to hold onto, slipping between his grasp more and more.

He’s abruptly pulled out of his thoughts as the carriage jerks to a halt, the horses neighing in protest. Gold sticks his head out of the carriage with a sigh of annoyance, and squints into the dark street.

“What’s the meaning of this? Why have we stopped?”

But no one answers him. There’s a heavy thud from the front of the carriage, followed by two more, and a cold sense of dread settles over him, like an icy hand wrapping its fingers around his heart.

He reaches for the dagger he always keeps within his robes, gripping it tightly. “What is going on?”

Again, silence is his only answer. Cautiously, Gold eases open the door and steps down from the carriage. The night around him is eerily quiet, and he looks up to the front of the carriage where the driver had been sitting with two Red Guards.

The bench is completely empty.

He stares at it, taken aback, before his eyes fall on three bodies on the ground, nothing more than lumps in the dark night. He hardly has a chance to process what that means when, from behind him, there are several _clip-clop_ sounds of heels on cobblestones, and he whirls around.

A thin figure with a sharp knife in her hand, blood dripping onto the pavement, steps forward, and Gold’s heart stops.  

“Regina?”

She pulls down her hood and grins at him, spreading her arms wide. “Nice evening out, isn’t it?”

She moves closer, wiping the bloody knife on her skirt and leaving a trail of scarlet blood in its wake that gleams in the moonlight, still grinning. But Gold doesn’t take a step back, withdrawing his dagger instead, and he sneers at her.

“So, this is what it’s come to, is it? You’ve turned hero?” 

Regina laughs darkly. “I’m no hero.”

He makes the first move, lunging forward. By chance, both of their daggers are not longer than their forearms, and it’s a close combat fight. They’re both skilled; though Gold hires people to do his dirty work for him, he’s kept up with his own protection – allies can become enemies in an instant, after all.

He manages to cut Regina across her arm, ripping her dress, and she cuts him on his cheek in return, sending blood running down his face and pain shooting through him.

He turns away from that slash, hand coming up automatically, to clutch at his face, and he continues to rotate, ready to stab Regina on the way around.

But, she’s nowhere in sight. He pauses, panting, eyes darting all around, listening for the slightest sound.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp, piercing pain in his back, so excruciating it makes the knife drop from his hands, clattering onto the street and rolling away.

“Sorry,” Regina says sweetly from behind him, and she twists the knife deeper into Gold’s back, making him gasp and sending gurgles of blood out his mouth. “But I don’t work for you anymore.”

She pulls the dagger out, blood dripping from it as she raises to look at it in the moonlight. He stumbles forward, and attempts to turn, reaching and clawing for Regina in an effort to keep himself upright. But he doesn’t get a good grip, his hands slipping off her silky dress, leaving a blood streak in their midst, and he crumbles to the ground, sprawling out on his back in the middle of the road.

The pain is like nothing he’s felt before. Pure agony, a hot fire scalding his nerves and overwhelming his senses, and the more excruciating thought – he’s dying.

He manages to take a few more breaths, shallow and wheezing, but there’s no way to recover from this wound. The light from his eyes begins to fade, and by the time Regina peers at him to see his state, he’s gone, the only light in his eyes now from the reflection of the thousands of stars above, bright and sparkling and everlasting. 

<> 

Three weeks later, Killian’s departure date arrives. For the first few days after Emma told him he’d have to leave, Killian considered just slipping away from the barracks, disappearing into the French streets and not leaving France at all.

He wasn’t sure how he would still get to see Emma that way, but being in France, hidden and on the run, would be better than being in Denmark, thousands of miles away and free. He almost did get up and leave one day, but was stopped by Robin and David, who, with grim faces, told him it was their duty to ensure he left France.

His friends, still in service to the king, the ones enforcing his banishment – Killian would shake his head at the irony, but there’s not an ounce of humour left in him.

So, though it’s the last thing he wants to do, Killian walks with the other Musketeers to the Louvre. He’s still too unwell to ride a horse for the several weeks it will take to get to Denmark, so a carriage has been commissioned for him by the royal family. He’s leaving from the Louvre instead of the barracks, the official royal carriage too wide to fit through the archway, and it’s the first time he’s been back to the palace in weeks.

The Louvre feels different as Killian and the other Musketeers arrive, tall and imposing and unfriendly. He’s been officially stripped of his Musketeer status, and he feels odd standing at the palace without his blue cloak, staring up at the towering walls and knowing he’ll never step foot in them again.

The servants and the guards shuffle around with quiet steps and lowered eyes as the Musketeers arrive. Killian doesn’t see anyone else he recognizes; Neal called an official meeting with all his ministers for the same time Killian is scheduled to leave, ostensibly to give them some privacy to say goodbye. 

The meeting is being held to find a replacement for the First Minister, as Cardinal Gold was found in the streets a few weeks ago, stab wound to the kidneys, dead as a dormouse.

When he heard the news, Killian felt an instant surge of relief and frankly, _triumph_ that he was the one to survived. That after all Gold had done to him, he was the one to die after all was said and done.

Those feelings dissipated as the days went on, leaving him oddly hollow. The man nearly killed him, has ruined his life, and his demise wasn’t even at Killian’s own hand. In his fever dreams, when he wasn’t dreaming of Emma or Liam, sometimes he dreamt of stabbing Gold with the same blade that had been used to cut off his hand.

And now he’s been robbed of that too.  

In the courtyard, it is empty save the carriage and the footmen and, to his surprise, Henry. Emma isn’t even there yet, but Henry is standing beside the carriage, shuffling his feet and lip jutted out in a pout.

Henry believes Emma’s arrest was a misunderstanding, and Killian is only leaving because of his status as an Englishman, but Killian wonders if the young boy suspects anything more. He’s always been exceptionally bright, after all.

“Henry,” Killian says, walking over to him and leaving the others behind. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to say goodbye,” he says, voice small and sad. “I’m sorry you have to go.”

Killian kneels down to eye level with him, and swallows down his own emotion. “Don’t worry about me, lad. This is just another adventure to add to my list, aye?”

Henry considers that, smiling slightly at the callback to their conversation from so long ago, but his brow furrows once more. “We never got to go sailing.”

Killian smiles sadly back. “Aye, that we didn’t. But maybe one day you’ll find someone else to teach you.”

“But I was looking forward to _you_ teaching me.”

Killian’s heart clenches painfully. “I wish it could be me, Henry. I really wish it could.” He pats him on the shoulder as he rises back to full height, and regards Henry seriously. “You’ll watch over your mother and take good care of her, aye?”

His round eyes are large and earnest, and he nods. “Always.”

Doors to the courtyard open, and Killian looks over. To his shock, the king steps out into the courtyard, arms behind his back and staring straight at Killian.

The Musketeers bow as he comes closer, and Killian stiffens. He hasn’t seen the king since before his arrest, and he wonders how the hell this is going to go, especially with Henry right beside him.

“I wanted to wish you a safe journey before you left,” Neal says when he reaches Killian, but his voice is cool and Killian gets the sense he wishes the opposite. “I hope you find life calmer in Denmark. It is not safe in France for an Englishman.”

Underneath those words Killian hears _it is not safe for_ you _in France_ , and he grits his teeth, managing to make his voice polite as he replies, “I understand.”

Neal nods, and takes Henry’s hand without another look to him. “Come on, Henry. Time for your lessons.”  

Neal escorts him away, but Henry turns around and waves goodbye before they disappear into the palace, and a piece of Killian’s heart chips and breaks off.

He swallows hard, and turns back to the Musketeers. “One for all?” he says quietly, stretching his right hand out in front of him.

“All for one,” the others murmur, placing their own hands on Killian’s.

For a moment, they stand there just like that, hands together, the last time they will ever be comrades.

Killian pulls away first, pulling Lancelot in for a hug. “Tell Ruby and her granny goodbye for me. And will you write to Tink – uh, Sister Rose at St. Meissa’s Convent?”

“Of course,” Lancelot replies, releasing Killian. “I’ll let her know.”

He hugs David and Will next, whispering good luck to David about Mary Margaret and telling Will to lay off the drinks, which earns him a chuckle.

Robin is next, and after a hug with him, Killian has to ask – “Where’s Regina? I guess I have to her to thank for my life.” _And for killing Gold and not letting me do it._

“She’s gone,” Robin says, with a shrug that’s almost too casual. “I haven’t seen her since the cardinal’s death. But she’ll be back; that’s her way.”

The door opens again, this time revealing Emma. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and the Musketeers quickly melt away, whispering goodbyes and clapping Killian on the back as they go.

Emma walks across the courtyard, her steps heavy. “So this is it,” she says when she reaches him, voice hoarse.

They’ve spent as much time as they could together these past three weeks. Killian couldn’t do much other than rest his arm and try not to move, so they spent a lot of time talking and looking over some old star charts she dug up from the Louvre library. He told her about his time growing up on the merchant ships, how his father sold him and Liam out for a rowboat. She told him about her time in Denmark, the fear and terror at every turn, but somehow managing to find lightness in simple things. He told her about Liam, and his death, how it ruined him for a long time. Emma told him about her parents, how she never knew them, how much she still feels their absence.

Killian tells her he loves her, and Emma does the same.

The weight of all their time weighs heavily on Killian’s shoulders, and he draws Emma close for a hug.

“I guess this is it.”

She shakes her head, and hugs him tighter. “I hate goodbyes. I’ve said too many already.”

He sighs against her, and rubs her back. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I promised I’d never leave you, and now ...” He pulls away, and looks into her eyes. “There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.”

Emma smiles waterly back at him. “Good.”

He smiles in return, staring at her and trying to memorize every feature of her smile into his mind. After a long time, he finally turns away, knowing if he doesn’t now, he’ll never be able to.

His belongings have already been loaded onto the carriage, a sad, single chest, and he moves over to open it up again. On top of his folded clothes and copies of the star charts is the fleur-de-lis pauldron, the one he used to wear every day as a marker of his duty as a Musketeer.

He hands it to Emma, and closes her fingers around it. “For when the stars are absent,” he says, and she smiles, pulling him back for another hug.

When they release each other, Killian turns to the carriage, biting down his own tears. The driver of the carriage has been politely looking away the whole time, but now jumps down to help Killian up the few steps.

When he’s inside, Emma comes to stand beside the closed carriage door, and Killian leans out, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

“Watch the stars. I’ll watch them too.”

She’s smiling as he pulls back, and though his heart feels like it’s breaking, and he leans back into the shadows of the carriage. The driver scrambles up to his seat, and then they’re on the way, out of the courtyard, and out of France, away from the only home Killian’s ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me yet! This is the final chapter, but I think you'll all appreciate the epilogue a lot more next week :) 
> 
> Art for this chapter by @captainswanandclintasha; http://captainswanandclintasha.tumblr.com/post/168294758673/if-the-stars-align-chapter-16-by


	17. Epilogue

_Three Years Later_

In Copenhagen’s harbour, the sea grey and choppy on the cold spring day, Killian Jones stands on the deck of his ship, checking and re-checking the charts for the upcoming voyage. Seagulls are screeching overhead, swooping and diving at crumbs or full meals abandoned by sailors, followed in turn by yells of dismay from the offended crewmembers.

Killian is focused intently on the charts in front of him, ignoring the screeches. Their upcoming voyage is treacherous, some winter icebergs lingering in the sea, and Killian’s trying to make sure they don’t run _The Jewel of the Realm_ right into one.

He’s drawn out of his study by a particularly brave seagull swooping at one of his crew. Smee, a larger man with a crimson knit cap worn precariously on his head, shrieks as the bird grabs hold of the hat. The rest of the crew turns from their duties, laughing as Smee jumps after the bird, ripping the hat away from the screeching seagull. Killian watches with amusement as Smee successfully saves his hat, cursing the bird to Davey Jones Locker.

He shakes his head with a chortle, and gets back to his charts. He’s planning for a several week trip to Helsinki across the Baltic Sea. Queen Ingrid has business there, and though she would normally send her ambassadors, she expects trouble and hence, Killian’s on his way.

“Oi! What do you think yer doing?”

Killian glances up. His crew have again abandoned their duties, this time crowding around the gangway onto the ship. A young man is about to board the ship, staring nervously at the crew around him. Though usually Killian would let his crew scare off anyone who dared to come onto his ship without permission, he recognizes the grey linen shirt the man is wearing, the frosted snowflake denoting the Queen’s servants embroidered on his left breast, and he sets his charts down.

“Simmer down, men.”

He drops down onto the deck beside the crew, and with a flick of his head, they dissipate. He stops in front of the young man, and the messenger raises a thin note, pointing it at Killian.

“Got a message for ... Captain Jones?” he questions, eyeing him up and down suspiciously, gaze lingering on the lethal curved hook at the end of his left arm that Killian has adopted as a prosthetic hand. He may not have his hand anymore, but the hook works well enough, so well in fact he’s become far better known as Captain Hook instead of Captain Jones, hence the young man’s confusion.

Killian waves the hook absently, gesturing the man closer. “Aye, that’s me given name.”

He looks unconvinced, but shrugs. “It’s from the palace.”

Killian sighs, thinking of the last meeting he’d had with Ingrid a few weeks ago now, wondering what she wants to yell at him about now. He’d returned from a voyage to Scotland, where they’d run into trouble at sea and had to make port for repairs. The English, in control of Scotland, had gotten wind Killian Jones was on their land, and as he is still wanted for mutiny there, had sent troops to collect him. The repairs had been finished the morning the English Navy arrived, and Killian and his crew had gotten away, out sailing the ships Killian once served on. It was an innocent landing, but Ingrid nearly had a war on her hands due to it.

She’d yelled at him for about two hours when he returned to Copenhagen, and dismissed him with an angry _stay away from places you are banned from_.

And now, a letter from the palace ... well, that could mean anything. He eyes the letter before taking it cautiously.

“What is it concerning?”

The messenger shrugs. “I’m just the delivery boy. Good luck to ya.”

He clambers away, and Killian returns to the helm, note unopened. He has no desire to see what other task Ingrid’s set upon him now. He’s eternally grateful that she took him in when all other countries turned their back on him, but she likes the ruthlessness the loss of his hand and banishment from France has created in him and uses it as often as she can for her own advantage. He drops the letter onto the charts at the helm, ignoring it as he continues his purvey of the planned route.

Starkey, who he’d sent out earlier for supplies, returns to the ship a few minutes later. He’s empty-handed, half-running towards the ship with an excited skip to his step.

“Captain, captain! Did you hear the news?”

“Hear what news?” Killian asks irritably, not looking from the charts. “That you forgot to get supplies? Because I can see that.”

“No, no. It’s news from France!”

His head snaps up and he glares at Starkey, cold enough to make the man gulp and take a step backwards down the stairs.

“I don’t want to know about France. You know that, Mr. Starkey.”

Starkey takes a bold step forward. “This is news you’ll want to hear, sir.”

“I doubt that,” Killian says, and he abandons the charts for now. The mention of France always creates a restless energy in his soul, and he knows he won’t be able to study them now. France holds nothing but pain and loss for him, a vicious anger boiling in him that he can never return, can never rejoin the Musketeers, can never see _her_ again.

He pushes by Starkey, jumping down the stairs two at a time. “Smee, tighten that line! We don’t want you getting thrown overboard again, do we?”

Smee shoots him an embarrassed look. “Aye, captain!”

Killian continues giving orders all around the ship, ignoring Starkey. Starkey doesn’t give up, trailing him closely, and the moment Killian takes a breath between orders, he chimes in again.

“Captain, trust me, you want to hear this. It’s about the French king.”

Killian pauses in his step, hand out on a line of rope. “What of him?” he asks cautiously.

“He’s dead, sir. Assassinated a few weeks by a crazed anarchist named Zelena by the sounds of it. She was one of those anti-monarchist nuts, ya know –”

 _He’s dead_.

The words crash over him in a wave, and he whirls around, eyes focusing intently on the helm, to where the small note from the palace is resting. It’s a gamble, but – but Ingrid never sends letters this late.

“How do you know?” he demands of Starkey, voice low and coming out in more of a growl. His heart is starting to hammer out of his chest, and he needs to know that it’s not just a rumour, not the spark of another false hope –

“It’s all over the market. News just got here, but it’s spreading fast. The French Queen’s been made Regent for her son, and you know she grew up here so everyone’s all excited that a Danish girl is the one in charge now –”

Killian shoves Starkey out of the way, making the man stumble and splutter. He takes the steps to the helm two at a time, unconsciously grasping for the sword necklace at his neck as he rounds the corner.

_It can’t be._

The note has been buried by the charts, and he shoves them all aside, picking up the letter with shaking fingers. The envelope is marked with the Danish crown, no sign it could be anything but from the Danish court, but when he rips it open, Killian can see the message is only a few lines long and it’s not from Ingrid at all.

_Time to come home. I’ll meet you with the swans under the stars._

There is no signature, only the imprint of a swan in bright blue wax, with a small doodle of the Cygnus constellation underneath it and a bright star to its left.

“Captain?” Starkey asks, having trailed him to the helm. “Is everything okay?”

Killian ignores him, dropping onto the deck with a heavy thud. “Ready the sails, mates! We’ve a new destination and we’re leaving immediately!”

Smee, pulling a rope tight, lets it loose as he whirls around, eyes wide. “But we’ve already set the course for –”

“We’ll change it. Now hurry up!”

The crew stare at Killian, mouths hanging open, and some of them exchange bewildered looks. Smee snaps out of it first and bobs his head in agreement.

“Aye, cap’n. Where to?”

Killian smiles, the first real sense of joy he’s felt in three years flooding through him, and he holds up the note, the wax swan gleaming brightly in the sunlight.

“France.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final artwork by @captainswanandclintasha; http://captainswanandclintasha.tumblr.com/post/168545589738/if-the-stars-align-epilogue-by-swanslieutenant
> 
> So that's it! I hope you've enjoyed it! I've got plans to put together a couple of deleted scenes/story lines and an alternate ending, so keep an eye out for that sometime in the future too. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Leave me a comment to let me know your thoughts :)


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